What Flutters Beneath
by TheWomanWhoWaited
Summary: After the "death" of Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper discovers that she is pregnant with his child.
1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper sat in her office, placidly gazing at the countless number of stars that speckled the London night sky. She was completely and utterly entranced by their beauty, wondering how anyone could see such vastness and think that there was nothing in the universe that could ever bring them happiness. Across the river, she could see the London eye, constantly turning in its never ending quest of bringing onlookers the joy of such a spectacle. But just as the eye spun its course, so did her mind in such circles.

'You'. That word. That one simple word continued to echo throughout her entire body. Such a small saying, but containing so much meaning and mystery when spoken from the man she truly loved, who was now sitting in the corner of the morgue, anxiously bouncing a ball against the brick. When Sherlock had said this to her, she had retreated to her office to ponder what had just occurred. Now, tears began to stream down her face, and Molly buried her eyes into the folds of her lab coat, for thinking of the downfall of the great detective had proved too much for her to handle.

"I don't know if I can do this," she said aloud, knowing that Sherlock could most likely hear her through the thin walls. Her mind was racing. Why would he want her to create a picture of someone who wasn't Sherlock? She knew that he had come to her for help in faking his death, but this? It killed her soul to think that she must paint such a false portrait of the man she had come to love. What about John? Mrs. Hudson? Nevertheless, she knew that she must do what he had asked, so she quickly gathered her composure and hastily walked out onto the morgue floor.

"Alright," she said, trying to conceal the pain that she felt inside, "what do we need to do?" In truth, she really had no idea how to fake someone's death. No one had ever asked her to and she honestly never thought she would have to. But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes.

"There is nothing to be done," Sherlock said, looking up from his incessant bouncing. "I have finished all of the preparations for tomorrow and now all you must do is-." He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixating on Molly's red cheeks.

"You've been crying," he said plainly. Molly could feel her face becoming white hot with embarrassment. She quickly turned away, hoping that he would say no more, but she knew that would not be the case. She grabbed a tissue from her coat pocket, attempting to wipe away the newly cried tears that had fallen from her eyes.

Molly's whole body began to shake and she could feel her skin turning ice cold. She couldn't control her sobbing, and no matter how hard she strained, she just couldn't stop the tears from flowing. Suddenly, she felt something being placed upon her back. It was warm, and it enveloped her small body completely, bringing a little amount of comfort to her aching heart. She turned around, only to see a sad looking Sherlock standing in front of her small form. Without saying a word, she fell into his open arms, breathing in his sweet aroma and feeling comforted by his warm embrace. Her whole mind seemed finally at ease, thinking of how strangely out of character this was for Sherlock, though she did not question. She could have fallen asleep standing right in this very spot. She felt at home with him. Her thoughts quickly were broken by the sound of Sherlock's soothing voice.

"Erm, I," he said, pulling himself away from her, "I'm going to go get a cab. You wait here until call." He stood completely still, staring into her eyes intently. Then, with a quick turn, he strode out of the morgue down to the street to hail a taxi.

Molly stood in the middle of the room, feeling happy again and now realizing that she was still wearing Sherlock's coat. Standing straight up, the the fabric still cascaded to the floor in a bug heap. She examined the loose threads around collar. This coat had obviously seen its fair share of work days, and she wondered how many dead bodies it had come into contact with as well. She pushed the thought from her mind, and she slowly slipped her hands into the large pockets. As she reached into the coat deeper, her right hand touched something rather cold, and upon retrieving it, her eyes widened and she began to feel her stomach leap.

It was a watch, but this was not just any watch. This was the watch that she had gotten him for Christmas the year before. She opened the lid, revealing the inscription. 'Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xxx' it read. The lights in the room hit the gold lid brilliantly, so the words sparkled and shined as she read them. It had been a year since she had seen that watch, and truly she had hoped to forget it. But now, seeing that he had carried it with him all this time made her not want to forget what he had said to her that Christmas Eve. She smiled and closed the lid tightly, placing the small thing back into its proper place. Not a moment to soon, her phone buzzed in her palm.

'Come outside, SH'. The words on the screen lit up the room. Of course it would be like him to text her instead of come escort her to the car. Molly hurriedly grabbed her things and walked out to the curb where she saw Sherlock already waiting for her in the London taxi. She crawled inside right next to him.

"187 North Gower Street," she told the driver. The cabbie then put the car into gear, and as they sped off, Molly stared up at the sky, wondering what the night was going to bring.


	2. Chapter 2

It was nearly 11:30 before the taxi arrived at the small, uptown flat, and sometime between the commute from St. Bart's hospital to her home, Molly had fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder. The car was completely stopped in front of her building, but Sherlock sat, unmoving, staring at her through his piercing blue eyes.

He had never seen her like this before, unguarded and so open. She seemed so peaceful to him, and so fragile, as if she would break if he touched her ivory skin. She was simple, yet so beautiful. The way her light brown hair fell gently over her rosy cheeks. The way her small lips curved into a slight smile as she slept in the coolness of the night. She was simply perfect. Sherlock's face instantly became warm as these thoughts raced through his mind and he quickly corrected his behavior.

'No,' he thought, 'I am married to my work and I don't have time for these distractions.' He rubbed his eyes with his cold hands and he cleared his throat a bit, though nothing seemed to get rid of his new feelings for this woman.

"Are you going to get out of my cab?" Asked the driver in a harsh tone. Sherlock realized that he hadn't moved from the taxi in ten minutes, but now that he was aware of his current situation, his mind was powerless in choosing the appropriate behavior. He didn't want to wake Molly from her delicate sleep, but he wanted ever so badly to get out of the bloody cab.

"Molly," he tried whispering while nudging her ever so gently, "you need to wake up." Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the dark brown orbs that now starred silently into the darkness.

"How long have I been asleep," she asked Sherlock, stretching as she did so.

"Not important," he replied, "just please get out of the cab so this man can get home to his lovely wife, not that she will be happy to see him. Judging by the apparent dark circles under his eyes, he hasn't been sleeping well. Why? Well, that's obvious. The wrinkles on his clothes suggest the couch, and the fact that he slept in his clothes last night, well, his wife isn't letting him into the bedroom. Fight last night? No. That would suggest long-lasting marriage problems, and considering he's not wearing his wedding ring based on the tan line on his left index ring finger, I'd say that she started the problems." He continued.

"An affair? Maybe. More likely that they were fighting over financial problems, judging by the expensive jewelry she's wearing in the picture he carries on the dashboard. He drives a cab. Obviously doesn't make much money, and guessing based on his secondhand clothing, I'd say that his wife of 20? No, 30 years is sucking up all their finances. And based on his harsh tone with us, I'd say he's ready to get home, although I don't see the point. Shall we go?" Molly starred at Sherlock, gaping at him with wide eyed astonishment. They got out of the car, the driver speeding off before they could hand him the fare.

"Why did you do that to that poor man?" Molly asked, looking up into Sherlock's eyes. She had to admit, it was impressive the way he could deduce these things ever so easily, but there were some things better left unsaid.

"I...," he replied, trying to come up with a logical explanation. Truthfully, he had done it to take his mind off of his feelings for the woman who was now standing in front of him, but how could he say that to her?

"It was easy enough. I merely saw and I concluded."

"Damnit, Sherlock!" she shouted. "Why the hell can you never just leave things alone?" She didn't want to yell at him, but she knew it was the only way to get through. He starred at her with his dark eyes, and trying to hold her ground, she could feel herself melting like warm putty in his soft hands.

"Let's just go inside," she finally said, pulling her key out if her satchel. They made their way up the stairs to her flat, making sure not to make much noise as they moved across the creaking boards of the floor below. Molly opened the door to her flat, revealing her how to Sherlock, whose mind seemed to be in hyperdrive.

Molly's flat was bigger than Sherlock had expected, and he was actually quite astonished by its size. The flat had four rooms in all, not including the small bathroom off of the master bedroom that Molly used for herself. The entire place was painted a dark beige, with one wall of her living room overlooking the Thames. There were three bookshelves, all completely filled with novels that had obvious all been read at some point. This place was very impressive, and Molly was very proud of it.

"It took some searching," she said to him as he peered at the river, "but I finally found the right fit." She walked up behind him, handing him a cup of tea with four sugars. He looked at her as she sipped her own and she smiled.

"How did you know how I take my tea?" he asked her. Only John knew how he took his tea, and even when he made his own, he rarely ever made any for Sherlock.

"You told me how you take you coffee, remember?" she asked. "Black with two sugars. Most people put twice as much sugar in their tea as they do their coffee, or at least I do anyway. I take six in mine." Sherlock's eyes widened at her statement.

"But you're so... Small," he said. He would never have guessed, even with his immense skills of deduction, that she took so much sugar in her tea. Molly blushed at his statement, feeling her cheeks go red. She finished her tea and walked over to the leather sofa, sinking down into the soft cushions.

Molly still couldn't get the conversation from the morgue off of her mind, wondering what it all meant. To her, Sherlock seemed to be speaking in riddles and she wanted to know what all he had meant. The words 'fake death', 'leaving for a while', and 'please help' all flashed through her mind. But most of all, the words 'you do count' and 'I need you' appeared again and again.

What had he meant? He hadn't said this like the other things he had said during the conversation. This was more sincere than from the matter of business and they made her mind race with questions. This was the man that she loved, and as she looked at him starring out the window, she couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind.

"Sherlock," she said, "what did you mean by you would be leaving for a while?" Hearing this, he turned around on he heels of his feet, facing her gaze.

"Moriarty still has some of his men poised to strike at certain times," he began. "After tomorrow's events, I will disappear from London for some time, and I shall return when the job is finished. For now, you and Mycroft are the only two who know of this." He looked at Molly, trying to take in her reaction. Her face was sad, and he didn't understand why, although his feelings were quite the same. He didn't want to leave this woman, by any means, but he had no choice. He gathered himself quite well, but As he looked upon her face, he noticed single tear had found its way down her now pale cheek, and she wiped it away, trying not to cry.

Sherlock was the love of Molly's life, and now he was telling her that he would be leaving for God knows how long. What was she going to do without him? For the past 2 years, it had been the thought of him that made her get up and go to work in the mornings. Oh how she could have cared less about the dead! It was this living man that held her together when she was feeling under the weather. Even in his roughness, he still texted her to ask how she was feeling if she wasn't at work on a day that he was working at the hospital. She sat on the couch, feeling heartbroken inside. She needed to get away for a moment.

"I am going to go take a shower," she said abruptly. "Just make yourself at home." She always took a shower after work, but since Sherlock was here, she hadn't gotten around to it yet. They always seemed to not only cleanse her body, but to also clear her mind. So, without another word, Molly got up from her seat, and as she walked away, Sherlock watched as she disappeared behind the bathroom door.


	3. Chapter 3

Inside the security of her bathroom, Molly allowed herself to break down into the sobs that she had experienced earlier at the morgue. The walk from her couch to the small room had seemed endless, and she could feel Sherlock's gaze practically burning holes into her back. Now that she was behind closed doors, she could almost relax, but also be able to express her feelings openly without reproach from another party. Right now, it was just her, alone with her thoughts. Molly reached for the faucet, allowing the hot water to fill the room with steam as she sat by the wall.

Molly thrust her face into her arms, tears streaming down her pink cheeks. She didn't want Sherlock to leave. She wanted him here, with her. All to herself. Molly had never felt this way about any other man, and she had certainly felt the touch of any. And even though he sat in her front room this very moment, Molly already felt a vacancy opening in her heart. She looked up at the condensation that had gathered on the mirror, almost with envy.

"At least the steam always has someone there for it," she said to herself. All she really wanted was for a man to love her, and now, the only man that she had ever truly loved was leaving. True, he would be back, but it still hurt her all the same. And although she was greatly distraught by his departure, she knew that she had to stop crying, otherwise she knew that he would question her about the bags under her eyes. Molly got up, peeling her layers of clothing from her now sweating skin, and she stepped into the shower.

The hot water hit her body like a waterfall, gracefully falling down every inch of her skin. She wet her hair, gently massaging her green apple shampoo through her brown locks. The soup smelled heavenly, making her almost forget he sadness. The sweet scent filled the entire room, and it was so strong that she was sure Sherlock could smell it as well. It felt nice to forget her worries for a moment. She felt free and happy, being able to think about whatever popped into her mind. However, it wasn't until she turned off the water that she realized she had forgotten her clothes.

"Shit!" she exclaimed loudly, covering her mouth as the word slipped out. She couldn't believe how stupid she had been, forgetting her clothes like she was alone in her flat. There was a man in her home for Gods sake! She quickly grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her wet body, wondering what she was going to do. She couldn't very well walk out into the front room in nothing but a towel. She searched the room frantically for something, anything to cover up her exposed flesh, but there was nothing. Then, she remembered. Molly walked over the small linen closet and opened the door, revealing what sat inside.

Hanging on the back of the door, there was a single white silk robe that had been given to her as a present by her aunt. It was absolutely beautiful, with blue and pink painted flowers decorating the thin garment. Molly rubbed her hand against the piece of clothing, feeling how smooth it was to the touch. She pulled it out of the closet and slipped it onto her body, feeling comforted by its somewhat concealment. The thing barely reached halfway down her thigh, but it was better than a towel.

Moving to the cabinet, Molly quickly dried her hair, leaving it undone and loose to cascade down her shoulders. It was soft and delicate, just like her robe, only darker in color. She stepped away from the mirror, and with a shaking hand, she reached for the door handle and walked out into the front room.

The cool air of her flat hit her face like the breeze from the ocean, coming in so quickly yet so gently. Her ears were met with the sweet melodies of the violin, and as she scanned the room, her eyes fixated on Sherlock. He had found her fathers old violin and was now playing it, so delicately and smoothly.

The music made her feel so happy, and It reminded her of when she was a little girl, when her father would play would play her a lullaby when she couldn't sleep some nights. He would tuck both she and her sister Emily into their beds, and then he would pick up his instrument and play them the sweetest songs they had ever heard until they fell asleep. She hadn't heard anything like it since her father had passed away, but these tunes made her feel like her father was standing by the window,playing the song of the Thames as it rushed by. But now instead of her papa, it was the man she had fallen madly in love with.

She watched him with every movement, his eyes closed and content. The light of the moon hit his face perfectly, giving him an ethereal presence that strangely comforted her and eased her still racing mind. With every motion, his bow moved elegantly across the face of the violin, creating new, rich tones that filled the stillness of the night air. Molly could have stood there forever, listening to his music, but instead, she moved closer to him. He stopped playing.

"I wasn't aware that you were listening," he said, staring out the window. His body seemed more relaxed than it did before and he slowly turned his gaze toward Molly. Her appearance in the robe surprised him, but he liked it all the same. He could still smell the fragrance of her shampoo in the air, filling his head with thoughts of her that only ordinary men would usually dream. Sherlock shook himself out of his trance and continued to stare at her perplexing beauty.

"Your playing reminds me of my father's," she said to him quietly. "This was his violin." She lifted her hand and pointed to the instrument in Sherlock's hands. He looked at her face, and without hesitation, he slowly handed it back to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I had no idea how precious it was to you. Forgive me." Sherlock looked into her brown eyes, feeling terribly ignorant. He told himself that he should have asked before he played it.

"No, don't be," she said, "it's completely fine. I loved it." She grabbed the violin and placed it back in its case, making sure that it was placed properly. She set it down on the table in front of her. She looked up at Sherlock, and instantly he felt himself falling in love with this woman. His eyes sparkled with a sense of delight like no one had ever seen, and he looked at her, deeply and longingly. They both stared at each other.

"Molly," he said, breaking the silence.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Do you remember what I told you at the morgue? About needing you?" Molly felt her cheeks turn warm.

"Yes, of course," she said, trying to hide her excitement. Sherlock felt his hands turn clammy and he began to shake ever so slightly in his right hand. He had never done this before.

"Molly," he continued, "when I said that, what I meant was, I, erm." Molly stepped closer to him, making them only inches apart. She could feel his breath upon her forehead, looking down upon her small frame.

"Sherlock, I know what you meant," she said sweetly, "because the truth is... I need you too." Sherlock's eyes looked down into Molly's once more. He could say no words, and he had no idea what to do next. Molly grabbed his hand, sending a sensation up his spine, and gently, she ran her hand up his arm until she reached his face. Then, slowly, Sherlock leaned down and kissed her.

Sherlock had never felt this way before, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't thinking with his mind, but simply with his body. Molly's small tongue darted in and out of his mouth, and his did the same in hers. Then, gradually, his hands found their way to Molly's waist, and hers around his neck. She jumped, wrapping her legs around Sherlocks waist, her lips never losing contact with his. He turned around, pressing her robed body against the glass of the large window.

"Why don't we go to the bedroom?" she whispered to him, and without hesitation, he picked up her light body and whisked her to the other room. Gently, he placed her on the bed, straddling her as he did. Still kissing her, Sherlock's hands felt his way around her robe until he found the long silk belt that tied it in place. He pulled it slightly, exposing her naked body against the softness of the sheets. He threw the robe to the floor and continued on.

Molly could feel his heart pounding through his chest, although still clothed. She leaned up, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it to the ground. Her hands slowly slid down his already sweating body to his waistline, reaching for the button on his pants. She quickly undid his trousers and moved them down his legs, pulling them away from them both until he was fully unclothed.

Sherlock's was completely aroused now, and his erection was begging for attention. He plunged into Molly, making her give out a loud moan. Her breasts heaved up and down as he went in and out of her, and she could feel herself coming.

She began to suck on his neck, but he would have none of it. He pushed her head back and began kissing her, deep into her bosom, but still neither of them were over the edge. Then, Sherlock pulled himself out of her and jammed into her flesh again. Molly heard herself scream Sherlock's name and they had both come now. Molly could feel him running deep inside herself, like a steady stream, fast and swift. This was a new sensation to them both, for neither of them had felt the sweet touch of another and after this night, neither of them would ever have another. They both lay there, panting, thinking this was the sweetest feeling in the world.

Slowly, Sherlock pulled her to him, hugging her tightly and kissing her gently on the neck. Molly had never dreamt that this would happen, and now that it was, she didn't want any part of it to end. She wrapped her arms around his torso, lying her head against his bare chest. He leaned his head into her neck, breathing in deeply her wonderful scent. Together, they felt perfect, the only thing separating them from the world being a cotton sheet, though seeming so much larger, like a shield from all things evil. They held each other tightly, never wanting to let go.

"I don't want to lose you," Molly whispered to Sherlock. She could feel him stroking her hair with his long fingers, feeling perfectly happy in his arms.

"You will never lose me," he told her. "because no matter how far away I am, my heart will always be with you." He kissed her forehead gently and held her in his arms even more tightly.

"I have always loved you, Molly Hooper," he told her, breathing her in again.

"And I have always loved you, Sherlock Holmes." And with those words, the two drifted off to sleep, holding each other tightly until the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stood on the edge of a cliff, overlooking one of England's mysterious moors. The moon was high in the night sky, giving off its ghostly glow as a light mist began to envelop the land before his eyes. Everything seemed to move in the night, the rocks and the land bending to the beck and call of the wind. The trees moved back and forth in waves, sending shivers up and down his spine as each branch shook with the sound of a thousand whispers. Owls cooed in the darkness, and with every breath he took, Sherlock could see the cold smoke rising from his lips. The darkness swallowed him like a hungry animal, concealing its prey deep within its snapping jaws.

Sherlock gazed in bewilderment at the dark shadows that were cast like demons on the ground, moving and slithering toward him as he breathed, and just as he prepared himself to turn and run, he heard a voice coming from behind.

"Poor Sherlock," the voice said, "Poor, scared Sherlock." Sherlock turned on his heel, as if on cue, only to see the face of Jim Moriarty looking him right in the eyes. His face was as dark as the night, and he stared intently at the detective with hungry intentions. Sherlock tried to calm himself, but as much as he tried to conceal his fear within, the more it was exposed to his only enemy.

"What do you want?" He asked Jim, trying to hide the trembling in his voice. He could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat, and he continued to refuse his knees the opportunity of buckling beneath him. He was not going to let his emotions get the better of himself.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty began, "you're so scared, I can feel it. I can literally feel it resonating from your bones. You're scared. Scared Sherlock Holmes." Jim walked closer to Sherlock, making him back up an inch. He could feel the evil in the night air, pushing him to move farther, but he held his ground. Jim continued.

"You really do disappoint me, Sherlock. I thought you would handle this a little better. The big 'consulting detective' making his grand debut. Just imagine tomorrows headlines!" Sherlock turned back around to face the moor, closing his eyes, hoping and praying that Jim would just disappear, but instead, he felt the warm breath of his foe against his ear.

"But you know what?" Moriarty whispered. "You're just like everyone else. Ordinary. You don't want to die. You don't want to lose your friends. But guess what, that's what people DO!" Sherlock's heart was now racing at what seemed like a million miles an hour, and his breath became short. He remembered the first time that he had heard these words, and now after hearing them again, he was petrified. Finally his knees gave in. Sherlock tumbled from the ledge, catching the side as he fell, his hands holding on for dear life. Moriarty still stared at him, chuckling to himself.

"You're so pathetic. Pathetic, Sherlock. You're just like them. I thought you were great, but you're just like everyone else. It SICKENS me!" Sherlock continued to struggle to get back on the ledge, but his body wouldn't move. Jim paused.

"I told you that I would burn the heart out of you," he sneered, "and now that I have... I think I owe you a fall." Suddenly, the ledge shifted, and as pieces crumbled to the rocky floor below, so did Sherlock with them. Down, down, down he fell through the chill air, his coat trailing behind him as he flailed wildly. Then, as fast as he began falling, it was over.

He opened his eyes, still only seeing darkness around. He could smell wet earth being poured around him, and it only took him a moment to realize that he was lying in a coffin. He felt as if the world around him was collapsing and he began to beat on the lid of the box continuously, but no one could hear him. Then, as the last shovel of soil made it's way to the top of the grave, Sherlock could feel a kind of heat rising from beneath.

The flames licked at Sherlock's back, grasping for his body, wanting him ever so badly. He pressed himself against the top of the casket, trying to keep from falling into the abyss, but no matter how hard he tried, there was nothing he could do, and just when he thought he must give in, he woke up to the sound of Molly calling his name.

"Sherlock!" she called, shaking him ever so slightly. "Sherlock, wake up!" Suddenly, his eyes shot open, and light flooded his vision, his body still trembling in fright. His blankets were wrapped around him, holding him down like unbreakable chains, tightening with every movement. He looked up at Molly with panic in his eyes. She spoke to him again.

"Sherlock," she whispered, stroking his black curls with her soft hand, "it's alright. It was just a nightmare. I'm here. It's okay." Slowly, her voice pulled him back to reality, and his body began to relax. His breathing began to slow down, and he lay still on the bed, trying to gather his thoughts.

"What happened?" He asked Molly, trying to remember the slightest detail. Sherlock had never experienced a nightmare, not one in his life, and he struggled to recall the events that had taken place. He had no idea what had gotten into him. Never had he felt so scared by anything in the world, but this had made him feel so vulnerable and so afraid. His mind was racing at such high speeds, trying to recollect something, anything, that would help him understand. There was simply nothing.

"Just calm down," Molly told him. "Everything will be alright." She looked into his beautiful blue eyes as she twisted his hair in her fingers. They were so magnificent, like the waters of the Caribbean Sea coming in for the tide, and as little golden flecks swam about inside, she couldn't help but imagine that they were fish swimming around in the great barrier reefs. She could have gotten lost in them, but amongst the sparkling blue diamonds, she saw something that worried her. She saw fear.

Molly had never seen this side of Sherlock, looking so desperate and afraid. This was the great Sherlock Holmes. The man whom she had come to know as fearless and living on the edge of danger. Now, as she stared into his eyes, she saw nothing but a gentle, loving man who needed her care. She sank down into the covers, hugging him gently, feeling his body trembling against her.

"It was so dark," he said, closing his eyes, trying to fight back tears. "And Moriarty. He was there, taunting me, coaxing me closer and closer to the edge of the cliff." Tears began streaming down Sherlock's face, falling to the sheets below and soaking them through. He covered his eyes with his hands. He couldn't bare Molly seeing him like this, and neither could she. She was nearly crying herself, but she held herself together, brushing his face with her dainty hand. His tears were hot against her skin, filled with terror and anguish.

"It's alright," she told him again, pulling his him gently so that he faced her. "It was just a dream. You don't have to worry about anything. Jim's not going to hurt you." As soon as the last sentence escaped her mouth, she wanted t pull it straight back in. She had forgotten that today was the day that everything was supposed to happen. The day that he was supposed to meet Moriarty on the roof of St. Bart's. There was a very real possibility that Jim could hurt Sherlock. She breathed out a heavy sigh, trying not to looked panicked.

"Everything will be okay, I promise." Molly felt as though she were making an empty promise. She knew that she couldn't guarantee his safety on the roof, but as soon as she said this to him, she could instantly feel him relaxing. He leaned in closer to her, kissing her gently on the forehead. Tingles shot through Molly's entire body, making her feel warm inside. This was heaven. She wanted to lay with him forever, not moving, just looking into his beautiful face, but as soon as these thoughts entered her mind, they were wiped away by Sherlock getting out of the bed.

"I must get ready," he began, his voice taking on its normal tone. "There is much to be done." He stood up, his body now completely exposed and uncovered. Molly looked him over thoroughly, standing there in the morning light. To her, he looked like a god, and she felt blessed just to look upon such magnificence. His whole being was simply beautiful, and she couldn't look away, but as Sherlock caught her gaze, she turned her eyes elsewhere. He walked out of the room, leaving her by herself with nothing but her own thoughts. She sat there, peering out the window.

It was still very early in the morning, the sun barely peering above the horizon. Hues of indigo and gold flooded the sky with radiant light, making the city seem like a paradise on Earth itself and giving Molly a since of peace. Every sound seemed to resonate with brilliance across the town. The sounds of cab engines roaring to life floated through the air with graceful tones. The jingle of every shop keeper unlocking their doors bounced off each wall, filling the streets with a melodious noise. The entirety of London Town was playing its own symphony, and Molly was lucky enough to hear it. She sat there, entranced by the beauty of it all, wondering how she had never heard it before. Then again, she had never been up this early. She turned around, only to see Sherlock, now fully dressed, standing right behind her.

There he was, the great detective, standing before her in all his glory, his back perfectly straight and poised. He black suit curved and fit perfectly to his sleek body, curving gently down his sides, creating an image of pure majesty. His purple shirt fit tightly around his chest, and although he didn't possess bulging muscles, the buttons almost cried out in agony, screaming to be let loose. He buttoned his jacket and then pushed his hands into his pockets, looking down at Molly.

"Shall we go?" He asked her, not noticing that she had yet to get dressed. Taking this as her invitation to dress, Molly stood up, holding the sheet tightly around her body as she walked to the closet. Normally, she would have had her clothes picked out the evening prior, but considering the circumstances of the night, she had to a t fast. She quickly threw on some clothes, and in a matter of minutes, she had already pulled her hair into a side ponytail and they were out the door, heading to the street below to hail a cab.

The last thing that Molly remembered before fainting was seeing Sherlock's body hit the cement in front of the hospital. It had all been a complete blur. Only a fraction of a second, but she could remember each detail vividly, without falter.

She had been standing by the window of the morgue, watching to see if any of Moriarty's men were coming, her eyes scanning the surrounding buildings for any detection of movement. She had no idea what was happening on the roof, and she truly didn't want to know. She didn't even want to think about the possibility of Sherlock being dead. A light mist filled the bottoms of her eyes, but she quickly wiped the forming tears away and continued to study the streets. Then, that's when she saw him.

It was John. The doctor's hand was glued to his face as he talked into his phone, a look of pure terror filling his eyes with each word he spoke. She watched him running toward the hospital as fast as his legs could carry, continuously talking into his mobile, but Molly couldn't make out a word he was saying. He kept running faster and faster, making his way to the hospital doors, and then, he stopped. Molly could feel the panic rising up inside of her stomach like steam in a kettle, begging to burst, but she watched on without a sound. Suddenly, he turned around and walked back the other way, staring up at the top of the building. That's when she knew where where Sherlock was.

'No!' she cried out inside. 'Keep running! Go get him!' She knew that this was all part of Sherlock's plan, but she thought that there had to be another way. Her soul begged John to keep going, to keep running toward Sherlock, but it was no use. She knew that this had to happen.

John raised his hand toward the sky, pleading with Sherlock to come down from the ledge, feeling hopeless as he watched his best friend stand on the brink between life and death. Molly could feel the sadness emanating from his hand, his fingers curling ever so slightly, grasping for his mate. Molly pressed both of her hands against the glass, watching anxiously as the tension mounted. Then, in that instant, she heard John scream Sherlock's name. She watched as her beloved Sherlock crashed to the ground with a sickening 'CRACK', and just as soon, her body crumpled beneath her and she, too, plummeted to the morgue floor.

About ten minutes later, Molly felt herself being awoken by a familiar voice.

"Molly," they whispered, brushing her hair back with their long fingers. "Molly, you need to open your eyes." Each word slurred in and out of her consciousness, making her feel even more disoriented. Her stomach felt nauseated, and as soon as she sat up, she felt like she wanted to vomit, her head feeling heavy and out of sorts. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes, revealing her Sherlock directly above her.

"I told you that you wouldn't lose me," he said to her lovingly. "You didn't believe me." She stared up at him, seeming more like a scared little girl than a grown woman. She had known all along that he wasn't actually going to die, but in this moment, she had never been so happy to see someone alive. She sat up, and hugged him tightly.

"Please don't go," she whispered, holding him with all her might. "Please, stay with me. We can hide you. Just please, let someone else find Moriarty's men. Please." She couldn't stop begging him. Asking him to stay with her was like asking Santa Clause to bring her the moon for Christmas, but she didn't care. She just didn't want him to leave. She loved him.

"I have to," he told her, holding her just as tightly as she held him. "If I stay here, I risk the chance of someone seeing me alive, and that could mean death for John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson." He stroked the back of her hair lightly, pausing for a moment. He breathed deeply.

"That could mean death for you." He pulled her into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head as he did so. "I don't know if I could live knowing that you had died because of something I didn't finish." They sat in silence for a moment, both with tears coming from their eyes. Molly buried her face in his coat, breathing in his sweet aroma one last time.

"I love you, Sherlock," she said, her words muffled by his coat. Her face was wet with tears and she could feel her cheeks turning red once again, but she didn't care. All she wanted was to hold him in her arms for all eternity, never letting him leave from her tight embrace.

"And I love you, Molly." Sherlock held her in his arms, quietly rocking back and forth. He kissed her gently, pulling her further into his lap. She felt so small in his arms, like a child, curled up in his crossed legs. It was true, he didn't want to leave her, but he had to leave. They both stood up, and he looked her directly in the eyes, taking in her image one last time.

"My heart belongs to you, Molly Hooper," he said, breathing her in one final time," and no matter what happens to me, it will always belong to you and I will always be with you." With these words, he took her hands between his and squeezed them lightly. Then, without anymore words, Sherlock Holmes disappeared into the darkness of the morgue.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly sat staring at the clock, watching the minute hand as it slowly ticked its way around the white face and waiting nervously for John to join her for dinner. The day had served as a welcome distraction, helping her almost forget that it had been a month since Sherlock had left, her mind temporarily letting go of the depression that constantly plagued her day and night. It had been hard for her since he had gone, her body falling into a state of irreversible malady. Everyday was a struggle for her, getting out of bed being a daunting task in and of itself. Her life had been practically in ruins. However, when she received the call from John, everything seemed to slip away, bringing back a sliver of happiness into her broken world.

She worked diligently to make her home as welcoming as possible for the doctor, cleaning every room and cooking his favorite meal. And now as she sat waiting for him to enter her home, she couldn't help but wonder what it had been like for him in this long while, remembering the last meeting they had shared.

It had been only minutes since Sherlock had left the hospital, but Molly stood, unmoving, by the window, watching the sky as it turned a dark grey. The clouds moved and swirled into patterns of sadness, as if they could feel the pain that struck the city with its deathly blow, mimicking it with such ease. She watched as people walked by, lowering their heads in respect as they passed the stain on the cement, and it pained her to think that they believed Sherlock to be dead. She couldn't stand seeing their solemn expressions, but just as she was about to cry again, her thoughts were broken by the sound of a familiar voice, and she turned around, only to see John standing just inches from her.

There he was, the army doctor, standing in front of her weeping like a child. His once tall shoulders were now slumped over in defeat, and with every breath, tears fell to the floor, gathering into a puddle at his feet. His left hand shook slightly, but soon his whole body was shaking violently with every sob. He looked up at Molly, his eyes pleading for help.

"Molly," he said, his voice choked back by tears, "did it really happen? Am I dreaming or did it really happen?" Tears continued to stream down his red face, and Molly watched as each rolled down his cheek to the floor, creating a pool of sadness that crawled its way across the tile. She wanted to tell him the truth more than anything, but she knew she couldn't. She wanted to tell him that Sherlock was still alive, that his best friend was still breathing. She watched him as his eyes met hers, begging her to bring him some good news. She stepped forward.

"I'm sorry, John," she said softly, brushing back his hair as she did. "I'm so sorry." She leaned over to him and hugged him gently, only to be met by small whimpers escaping from his mouth. His body sank to the floor.

"God, no," he whispered out loud, his voice barely audible. "God, please, no." Every word hit Molly like bolt of electricity, striking her deep within. It pained her to see such a strong man, such a brave and confident soul, brought down to his knees in sadness, pleading for help from a higher power. She had never seen someone so heart broken, other than herself, and now it seemed as if the earth that this man stood on had been ripped to shreds. There was nothing she could do for him. She felt so helpless.

Suddenly, Molly was pulled away from her thoughts by the sound of someone knocking at her door.

"I'm coming!" she cried out, setting her tea on the table. For some reason, she felt unusually happy, and now, as she prepared herself to open the door, she couldn't help but feel thankful for the bit of normalcy that was about to enter her home. She slowly peered through the peep hole, and, holding her breath, she opened the door to reveal a smiling and happy John Watson.

"Hello, Molly," he said to her, holding out a bouquet of flowers. "Umm, these are for you. Just a little gift for the hostess." He stepped inside through the threshold, handing them to her in a polite gesture. Molly held them to her nose, breathing in their strong, perfume-like smell. They were absolutely wonderful.

"These are beautiful, John," she told him, hugging him tightly. "Thank you." She looked at each flower, wondering where they had come from. It was simply a wonderful arrangement, filled with pink and white daisies, with hints of purple buds. She loved it so much, and now she couldn't wait to put them into a vase for display. She walked over to the sink, filling a tall container with water and placing the flowers gently inside. It was perfect. She placed the flowers on the counter and walked into the living room where John was waiting.

He was still staring at her, his smile stretching across his entire face, making him look like the happiest man alive. He looked confident to Molly, but in truth, he looked too confident. Molly sat down in the armchair adjacent to him, breathing in deeply as she prepared herself to speak. Then, before she said anything, she noticed something that she hadn't before. He was carrying his cane.

"Umm," she began, not knowing what to say. "Erm... How have you been?" Her eyes darted back and forth between his face and the small crutch as he talked, trying to make sense of it all. Why would he be using it now? He had been just fine without it just weeks earlier. But why would he need it- 'Oh,' she thought, kicking herself mentally. She had completely forgotten that his limp was simply psychosomatic, brought about by stress and sudden anxiety. She closed her eyes, feeling completely stupid.

"Molly," his voice pierced through her brain, "are you even listening to me?" He could tell by the expression adorning her face that something was troubling her, making her completely vacant to the outside world. He had seen that look before. It was a look of blatant curiosity. A look of deep thought and concentration, and he knew it well. He looked into her eyes, following their path down to the long, metal shaft that sat by his side.

"You know it's rude to stare," he said, chuckling a bit. The sudden laughter caught Molly's attention, her eyes blinking furiously as he pulled her back into reality. She felt embarrassed for staring, her face becoming flushed and her palms sweaty, and she wondered if he could feel her mortification as she thought he could, spilling from her body like water from a fountain. She looked up at him shyly, his smile fading away and the laughter dissipating.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice shaking. "I didn't mean to-"

"Molly, it's okay," he broke in, leaving her shocked. "You have every reason to wonder." His voice was now soft and it no longer carried its cheery air. His smile was completely gone, and he stared down at his leg, almost in longing.

"After the..." His voice caught, his eyes trying to hold back the tears, "after the fall... this DAMN thing started acting up again." He lifted his hand, covering his mouth, his eyes looking up at the ceiling in heartache. This was the first time he had talked about the incident with anyone, and it was killing him inside. He wanted to break down as he had so many nights already, but he knew he had to stay strong. This was all progress. Molly watched him in silence, feeling so sorry for him.

She couldn't imagine how it must have felt to believe that Sherlock actually was dead. To her, he was just gone, practically on an extended vacation, and now, she felt completely selfish. She knew he was coming back one day. She knew he was still out there somewhere, but John didn't. Molly leaned forward, placing her hand on John's knee, rubbing it slightly.

"John," she said, her eyes fixed on him, "it's okay. You can talk to me. I won't bite. I promise." Her voice was soft and soothing, giving off a persona of loving intention. At this point, Moly could see every muscle in his body releasing as she spoke to him. He moved his hand away from his face, letting it come to rest in his lap, grasping the other tightly. He wrung them together gently, still feeling a bit anxious, but now knowing that as long as he was with her, he would be safe, with no one around to judge him. He knew he could count on her.

They both looked at each other, a great silence permeating the room. Molly broke it.

"Why don't we go eat while everything is still hot?" She asked, finally remembering the lasagna that sat on the stove, cooling to room temperature. She hoped it wasn't cold already.

"That would be lovely," John replied, his stomach letting out a large growl. "And apparently I need it." Molly let out a small giggle, and suddenly, she couldn't stop herself. Her body ached with laughter and her eyes watered uncontrollably. This was the happiest she had felt in weeks, and all over something as simple as a peckish stomach? She couldn't contain herself, falling back into her chair and continuing to laugh. John looked at her, his body now shaking with giggles itself. They both sat there for a moment, catching their breath before speaking again.

"Shall we head to the kitchen?" Molly said, her voice still riddled with chortles. She reached out her hands, pulling John to his feet and gleefully skipping toward the delicious meal awaiting them. It had felt good to laugh, and she couldn't think of a better person to be laughing with. She walked over to the cabinet, pulling out her best China and beginning to dish out squares of the meat and pasta.

The steam rolled from the food in great amounts, assuring her that it was still hot. She picked up the plates and walked over to the table, setting one down in front of each of them. She couldn't wait to dig in. She could smell the sauce, the garlic and herbs forming a perfect medley in the air around her, and the cheese giving off a wonderfully pungent aroma. She sniffed in deeply, taking in every last drop. She hadn't had food like this in weeks, and nothing was going to keep her from it. She stuck in her fork, pulling out a large piece and popping it into her mouth. This tasted like heaven.

John watched her as she devoured two pieces of the stuff, barely coming up for air. He had never seen a girl her size eat so much, but he wasn't going to stop her. It was almost beautiful. He wished he had appetite she had. He picked at the block of food on his plate continuously, only taking a bite every now and then. He admired Molly's abilities, and watching her eat was enough. He didn't need to touch his food to feel full, and besides, it wasn't like he was hungry in the first place. He hadn't been hungry for weeks, and nothing could change that, not even Molly. He continued to watch her, until, suddenly, her eyes widened.

"What's wrong?" He asked, his voice taking on its doctor-like tone. Molly's face turned a pale white, and she wiped her lips quickly, throwing her napkin down with one hand and holding her abdomen with the other. What was wrong? He stood up and walked over to her side of the table, kneeling down beside her.

"Molly, what is wrong?" She darted up from the table, sending her chair flying backward into the cabinet.

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said, her hands coming up to cover her mouth and her cheeks puffing out. She bolted for the loo, bursting through the door and landing in front of the commode, thrusting her head inside. Her stomach churned and did summersaults, heaving as she vomited the contents of her dinner into the water below. She had never felt so horrible in her life.

John came running not the bathroom, holding a glass of water in his hands. He knelt down beside her, placing the cup in her hands, directing to toward her lips.

"Drink," he said, practically ordering her to do so. She sipped on the water slowly, and in a matter of minutes, she was back with her head in the toilet, regurgitating the small amounts of liquid she had just ingested. John reached up and gathered her hair, holding it out of the way. He patted her back lightly, trying to comfort her as best he could, watching as her stomach twisted into knots, sending her into fits of vicious puking again and again. What the bloody hell was wrong with her? He looked up at the wall, noticing the small calendar next to the sink, studying it with curiosity. That's when he noticed something.

For each month on the calendar, there was one week that had been colored in, representing the time of month she was to start her menstrual cycle. Every month had seemed to be right on time, almost 28 days apart exactly, just like clockwork. He looked over at the month of February, it too bearing the blocked out section of paper. It was already almost two days passed the day she should have began, but looking over at the small trash can, he observed something else: it was empty. He held onto her hair, continuing to wrack his brain as to what was happening. The sudden nausea? The missed period? Suddenly, his eyes widened, his mind coming to a massive realization.

'Oh my God,' he thought, his hands sweating profusely. 'Oh my God... But, but who?' He looked down at her, her hands resting on the toilet seat as she slowly began to sit up. He reached over, grabbing a towel and wetting it, wiping her face gently, clearing away any remnants of the sudden episode. She leaned back, falling into his lap, looking as weak and tired as ever. She didn't understand. Why had she become so suddenly sick? She looked up at John, his hands placing a cold rag on her forehead. She looked over his shoulder, noticing the calendar just as he had moments before. She saw it too.

"John," she said weakly, trying to move away from him slowly. Her eyes were beginning to fill with anxiety, and her head was now throbbing with pain. He reached over and touched her face, her skin feeling warm and clammy. He thought she should be lying in her bed, but he knew that she had other things on her mind.

"John," she started again, "do you think it would be possible for you to accompany me to the drugstore? I have a terrible headache." He looked down at her, knowing that she had ulterior motives. He could see it in her eyes.

"Of course," he said, trying to sound normal, "it would be no problem at all." He stood up, pulling her carefully to her feet, not wanting to upset her stomach yet another time. Slowly, they both made their way out of the small bathroom. John picked up his coat, slinging it around his shoulders and zipping it quickly. He then walked into her bedroom, picking up her cardigan and her coat, and then he headed back into the front room, walking toward Molly. He gently wrapped each of the garments around her small frame, bundling her up before heading outside.

"Shall we go?" John asked, opening the door for her as he did so. Molly reached around him, retrieving her keys from the purse just behind the door. She then walked through, and with one fluid motion, John grabbed his cane, closing the door behind him as they left the flat. They walked down to the street in silence, barely making a sound as their shoes clicked on the steps. Each of them had something on their mind, and each thought was just too great to spoil with conversation. They made their way down to the curb, waiting for a taxi to drive by at any moment, and finally, when one came to their aid, they both climbed into the backseat, still not speaking to one another as they rode to the local emporium.

((time lapse 2 hours later))

Two hours later, Molly and John both sat in the bathroom once more, staring in bewilderment at the positive pregnancy test that Molly now held in her tiny, little hands.


	6. Chapter 6

Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, leaning against John's strong chest, Molly drew a shaking breath as the result of the test etched itself into the farthest reaches of her brain.

'Positive,' she thought, the lone word ringing through the ghostly silence that had settled upon the room. 'Positive?' How had this happened? She couldn't believe what she was seeing, hoping that she was dreaming and pinching herself all over. She stood up and splashed some water on her face, trying to force herself to wake up, but it was no use. This was all real. Molly fell back to the floor, her body completely rigid, trying to process her thoughts.

Truthfully, she would have been much more comfortable dealing with this by herself, not having someone by her side to make her feel guilty. And now that John, of all people, was sitting right beside her as she discovered that she was pregnant with SHERLOCK'S baby?! This was an absolute nightmare. Slowly, she stood up, walking into the front room, proceeding to pace back and forth.

"What am I going to do?" She whispered to herself, hoping that John couldn't hear. "What the hell am I going to do?" She could feel the anxiety running through her veins, coursing through her body like a river of fire. It seemed as if the weight of the world had been placed upon her shoulders, and as of now, she had no one to help her carry the burden above her. She continued pacing, her breathing becoming more and more rapid with every step. She was getting scared.

John continued to watch her as she walked quickly from one side of the room to the other, sending small gusts of air that shook the curtains with every passing movement. He could see her eyes as they darted toward him every so often, wondering what she was thinking. He could tell that his presence made her a bit uncomfortable, but he didn't quite understand. Why was she so worried about what he thought? If anything, he would understand, considering he and Sarah had experienced a pregnancy scare just months before. He knew exactly what she was going through. Slowly, he stood up and walked into the living room, approaching her cautiously.

"Molly," he said, his voice now soft again. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with worry and fear, wondering what she was going to tell him. She quickly looked away, not wanting him to notice.

"I don't want to talk about it right now, John," she snapped. He was completely taken aback by her outburst, for he had never seen this side of her before. He stepped back, falling into the chair that lay directly behind him, continuing to peer at her with a wondering expression. Suddenly, she stopped, and without warning, her body collapsed underneath her, seeming to adhere to the carpet below. John shot out of his chair, running to her aid.

"MOLLY!" He shouted, reaching down to feel her pulse. He could feel a slight fluttering beneath her ivory skin, and as he pulled her gently into his lap, he could hear her letting out a light groan. He cradled her head, stroking back her hair as he spoke to her softly.

"Wake up, Molly," he said, his voice light and airy. "Come on, open your eyes. Please?" He looked down at her face, her eyes still snapped shut. Then, just as he was about to phone for some help, he looked down just in time to see little wet streams pouring from her eyes. He sat her up, her hands covering her face in reflex, still fearing to look at him. He could feel her trying to pull away from him, but he kept his grip around her waste, not letting go for one moment. He wanted to know what was going on. Her body finally began to relax gradually, and with little motions, he pulled her back into his arms. He felt her begin to cry softly, her tiny self shaking with every teardrop.

"John," he heard her mutter out from between sobs, "I... I'm so scared." Her body was now flushed in pink, but she shivered in the chill air of the room. He reached up and pulled the blanket from the chair behind, wrapping it around her in a soft cocoon. Her shivering ceased, and her breathing almost returned to normal. He still held her close to him.

"It's going to be okay," he told her reassuringly. "I promise you it will be alright." She leaned up, looking him in the eyes, only to begin crying once more. It was just too much for her. John breathed out a long sigh, still baffled by Molly's constant crying, but not questioning her about it. There was only one thing on his mind.

"Molly?" he breathed out. He could feel her body going rigid again, almost feeling apprehensive. She sat up, her tears gone, looking him directly in the face.

"Yes?" she replied, knowing what he was going to ask. She got her grip on herself, holding her breath and waiting for him to speak again.

"Umm," he began, not knowing how to phrase the question, "if you don't mind my asking, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I just want to know... Who is the father?" Molly's eyes widened, and her face began pouring water once again. She reached up, wiping her eyes with the blanket, trying to stop herself, but nothing was happening. This was all a horrible mess.

'How am I going to tell him? What am I going to say?' These were the questions that flooded her mind as she stared at him, trying to stop herself from breaking down again. She already felt guilty for knowing the truth about Sherlock, but now having to tell John to whom the baby belonged, she felt even more contrite. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and, speaking in a low tone, she reached down and grabbed John's hands, looking at him apologetically. He still didn't fully understand, but still, he listened intently.

"About a month ago, before the... Fall," she began, her voice laced with heartache, "he came over, and something happened. We didn't mean for it to happen, but it just did." John still didn't quite grasp what she was saying, his eyes becoming more and more confused. Who was this 'he' person? Then, his mind flashed back to the night before the fall. The night that Sherlock had not come home.

Sherlock had just left him standing in the middle of the street, wondering what he was going on about with his talk of Moriarty and this so-called 'final act'. None of it really made sense to him, so he decided not to follow, but to instead go back to the flat, seeing as that there was nothing he could do. He made it back to 221b in one piece, and that night, he sat up for hours waiting on Sherlock to return home. He knew he was safe, but he just wished he knew where. He tried texting, but there had been no response. So, he sat in his armchair, waiting for the door to open and for Sherlock to walk through. But he never came.

John shook his head quickly, bringing him back to the reality of the situation. It couldn't be... No. It just couldn't. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to keep a calm look about him.

"Molly," he said, "this baby isn't... It isn't..." He couldn't even finish his sentence, but he already knew the answer. She nodded her head, tears falling to the floor, soaking into the carpet.

"It's Sherlock's," she said, almost chuckling a bit as she said so. It almost sounded weird for her to say it out loud, and she knew how odd it must have sounded to John. He shook his head in protest, not wanting to believe it.

"But... No. It can't. It just can't." His entire expression had now changed from longing to help her to completely shocked. He didn't understand. Sherlock wasn't like that. He remembered the first time his flatmate had told him that he was 'married to his work', making it completely clear that he was not interested in relationships whatsoever. John fell back against the chair, his eyes large with surprise. This was madness.

"John, I'm sorry," she said, her hands grasping his even tighter. "Please, don't be angry with me. I'm sorry." She pleaded for him to forgive her, but what was there to forgive? Her begging pulled him from his stupor, and he looked up at her, touching her cheek with his fingertips. He smiled slightly, letting her know that she could relax. Everything was going to be fine.

"Molly, why would I be mad?" He asked, still crying, but now sounding a bit more joyful. His tears took on an aura of happiness, and he chuckled softly. He wasn't mad at all.

"I'm just a bit shocked, that's all," he continued. "It's just, not something you hear everyday. I promise you, I'm not mad." His smile made Molly feel a bit more comfortable, warming the room as he talked. She moved closer to him, and with a quick movement, she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you," she said, her voice in a whisper. "Thank you so much." John felt her beginning to cry again, but this time, it was of happiness and not sorrow. He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her back gingerly. He then leaned back and pressed his hand to her abdomen, looking down at where his best friend's child was residing. He still couldn't believe it, but it made him smile all the same.

"I am here for you," he said, looking at her sweetly. "No matter what you need. Doctor's visits. Medicine runs. The whole nine yards. I am here for you through it all." He continued to stare at her belly, feeling happy all over. This baby was the one connection that he would have to Sherlock, and he was going to make sure that everything was going to go by smoothly. It was his job to take care of Molly now, and take care of her is what he would do. He took his gaze away from her stomach, looking up at her once more, her eyes full of contentment.

"Thank you, John," she said once more. Her head was no longer racing, but now, everything was still... And happy. Suddenly, she began to feel fatigued, her eyes drooping.

"Why don't we get you to bed?" John asked, watching as she drifted in and out of sleep and awake. He stood up and bent down, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into her bedroom. He placed her gently onto the mattress, pulling the blankets up over her and watching as her eyes closed all the way, bringing her into a deep sleep. He walked to the door, placing his hand on the light switch, and before leaving, he turned around to peer at her one last time.

"Good night, Molly," he said, knowing she couldn't hear him. And as he flicked off the light in the room, he closed the door behind him, walking down to the street and thinking about the beautiful creation that fluttered just beneath the surface of the even more beautiful girl.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft Holmes stood in the corner of his office, leaning on his umbrella and taking in the cinema that was the London afternoon as it played itself out before his very eyes. He stood silent, like a great marble statue, absorbing the very essence of the grand city through the large glass window that stretched across the entire room, framing the town in its permanence. Everything seemed to be almost frozen in time, making it feel as though he were staring at a photograph from years past, and yet as his eyes followed the patterns of bustling crowds throughout the streets, he couldn't help but feel as if he were taking part in a film for the ages, playing a minor part of the grandest proportions.

The town was so marvelously captured in all its glory, but even in the brightness of the light of day, there was still something that made Mycroft feel as if there was something awry. His eyes glittered with the luminance of bright sunlight, but just as the sparkle began to become brilliant with radiance, his heart seemed to reach up and extinguish the love for his city and the love for his home. His passion for London was doused with the waters of longing, and the bright sky seemed to turn a dreary grey once more, leaving his soul in a state of sadness and bitter feelings that ate at him constantly. He turned his back on the window, walking over to his desk and sinking into his leather chair, propping his feet upon the desktop. There was nothing that this city could give him, for there was nothing it could do to call his dear brother back to his home.

It was true, he did miss Sherlock terribly, although he would never admit it aloud, and contrary to his brother's belief's, he did actually care about him. Mycroft was completely aware of the circumstances of the fall, but he still wished that he would come home. He knew that he had to finish the job that he had started with Moriarty, but if only there were some way for him to lure his baby brother back sooner, he would give everything to let it be so, no matter the cost. He texted him on occasion, but never once had his messages moved from 'delivered' to 'read' on his iPhone screen, putting troubling thoughts into his head, and making Mycroft worried and apprehensive.

Slowly, Mycroft leaned back into his chair once more, sipping his tea carefully and continuing to ponder the dilemma at hand. How was he going to get Sherlock to come home? Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the vibrating sensation that worked its way through his body from the depths of his jacket pocket. He hurriedly reached into his blazer, hoping and praying that it would be a message from Sherlock, but as soon as his eyes laid sight on the home screen, his expression became grim once more, and with a look of sheer disappointment, he dismally swiped his index finger across the screen and read the new message from Dr. John Watson.

'We need to talk,' was all it read, the words seeming meaningless without an expression to guide their purpose. Mycroft sat staring at them, his smile still down-turned in dissatisfaction, wanting the text to be from his brother. His fingers drummed on the glass screen, sending back a message in reply.

'Then make an appointment with my secretary,' he typed out in haste. He really didn't want to speak with anyone at the moment, and John's text was just a great inconvenience on the folds of his life, making him want even more, though secretly, to hear the voice of his brother again. The doctor's presence in his life was a constant reminder of how long it really had been since he had seen Sherlock, and with every text or phone call that permeated his mobile, he became increasingly anxious, not knowing where Sherlock was, or even if he was still alive. He pressed the send button quickly, only to be met with an almost immediate response.

'I don't think you want this to wait,' John replied, bringing an air of annoyance to Mycroft's being. His nostrils flared a bit at the short sentence, and his face turned a light shade of red, making his body go slightly warm. He leaned upward in his chair, rolling his eyes in exasperation, and, reaching for his phone once more, he proceeded to dial John's number. He pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the small ringing noises that dotted the silence between the lines and waiting for his acquaintance to pick up the phone. He waited for what seemed like hours, and as he was about to hang up the phone, he was greeted by a familiar voice.

"Hello Mycroft," John said, obviously happy to be in connection with him. "I see you got my message?" Mycroft stood up, swaggering over to the window, watching as the clouds covered the sun in a blanket of grey. He observed as birds flew in and out of the billowing towers of dark mist, creating a mysterious image, painted by nature itself. His eyes followed every movement, trying to take his mind off the nuisance that was filling the air with idle chit chat and attempting to hold back his lashing tongue with every fiber of his being. He just couldn't.

"What do you want, John?" he popped back, his voice rigid with irritation. He stood at the window, waiting for a reply and watching the sky as rain began to fall on the sidewalks, darkening the day even more. He closed his eyes, mentally punishing himself for not holding his ground.

"We have to talk, Mycroft," John replied in a surprisingly even tone, his voice shockingly calm and smooth. Mycroft still listened to him, trying not to yell at him further, but still barely containing his anger. He bit his lip in frustration, holding back any words of hate that might escape his throat. He stayed silent, listening to what John was saying.

"I need to come meet with you, today," he said, sounding more demanding now. The soldier in him was barley peeking through, but it was still apparent that he was completely serious, his tone not wavering. A thick silence pervaded the space between the lines, leaving them both in a shroud of solemn stillness and making Mycroft wonder what was so important. His incisors loosened their grip on his now bleeding lip, and he readied himself to speak, only to be interrupted once more. His teeth assumed their previous positions, and with every word, he could feel them digging deeper and deeper into his flesh, begging to set his aching tongue free. His right hand clasped the handle of his umbrella firmly, wrenching the metal tip deeper and deeper into the carpet below, and he simply couldn't contain himself. He had to say something. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, readying himself speak.

"Why don't you stop by in an hour?" He asked, now subconsciously hitting himself in the temple, making his brain ache with torment. This was almost pure torture for Mycroft, his extremities going rigid as he spoke each word. He really didn't want John coming into his office anytime soon, and now he had just plainly invited him in, as if ordering a cup of tea without a second thought. What was he going to say? And what if Sherlock texted him while he was there? Nevertheless, the deed was done and he let it pass, knowing what the answer was going to be.

"Erm," John began, "I mean that's perfect. We will be over in an hour." Mycroft continued to hold the device to his face, soaking in what he had just heard. We? He tried to say something, but no words would form, his brain still calculating the possibilities. Was it Lestrade? Anderson? Surely one of these men would be the answer. He opened his mouth to ask, but just as soon as his lips parted, the line between the two phones went dead, leaving the room in a chill atmosphere of wonder and perplexity. He glanced down at his watch.

'One hour,' he thought, pondering the amount of time he had before they, whomever they may be, were going to arrive. 'One hour.' Slowly, he walked back over to his chair, slumping down into the leather cushions, the seams barely catching his jacket as they slid past. He leaned his umbrella against the hard mahogany of the old desk, being careful not to scratch it, but also setting it down in urgency. He leaned back into his seat, pressing his fingertips together lightly, as all great Holmes men did in time of thinking, and, without another word, Mycroft sat in his office, gazing at the wall and wondering who was going to step through the door behind Dr. John Watson.

(Point of view change)

As Molly sat in the living room, staring at the Thames rushing through the heart of London and sipping on her tea with delight, John came bounding in from the bedroom in a great hurry, shoving his phone in his jacket pocket and grabbing his coat in a hustle. He grabbed Molly's from the rack by the door, tossing it in her direction and beckoning for her to get up.

"We have to go," was all he told her, his voice filled with happiness and worry all the same, ordering her from her seat. She sat still, quietly and unmoving, ignoring his orders and continuing to savor every ounce of her sweet drink, letting the liquid cover her tongue with a sugary film. She closed her eyes to take in the pleasant taste. Why was John in such a hurry? She tilted up her cup until the last bit of tea fell into her mouth, sending warm feelings throughout her insides, making her feel sleepy and content. She pulled her blanket tightly around her body in a fluffy cocoon, enveloping her entirely and making her relax completely.

Molly sank down into the couch, continuing to push away the sound of John's voice as it filled the room, knowing that he was watching the back of her head with peeled eyes. But she really didn't care. For the past four months, all she had heard from him was constant pestering as to the health of the baby, and frankly, she was tired of it. She closed her eyes, trying to push his nagging voice out of her mind.

'Make sure you don't eat anything too spicy,' he would say. 'And don't sleep on your right side, it might make the child uncomfortable." She looked down at her belly, which now bulged with an apparent baby bump, placing her hand over where her child lay and not wanting to get up from her seat. John meant well, and for Christ's sake he was a doctor, but for once she just wanted a day to herself to sit and relax, without him in the background barking orders at her. Ever since he found out, he had done nothing except tell her what to do and what not to do, and she was going to have no more. She turned her head to look at him, leaning her arm over the back of the couch and pulling herself up to get a better look. Her kind eyes were filled with a sarcastic sparkle, and she smiled at him, her lip upturned in a half smirk.

John looked at her in besetment, watching as she remained stationary, his eyes practically shooting lasers into her skull as she sat on the sofa, looking at him triumphantly as if she had won. He was all too familiar with that look, and he had tried for months to get it out of his head. John rolled his eyes in vexation, walking over to Molly and placing his arms under her, hoisting her into the air and forcing her onto her legs. He could feel her going stiff, and she stood in the middle of the room, looking at him with a glare that could have killed an army.

"What the hell was that, John?!" She exclaimed, practically yelling at him, her face new wearing an expression of pure disgust. She stood hunched over, her right hand holding her belly and the other bracing her back which now ached with pain. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying not to focus on the discomfort that now coursed up and down her spine, making her feel as if she had been struck with a sledgehammer. John could hear her taking in small breaths, and as she began to become normal once more, he stood back, waiting for the fury of Hell that he knew was about to come. Molly looked up at him, her eyes swirling with anger and pain, wondering what had gotten him into such a tizzy.

"I'm sorry," she heard him say, his voice laced with the sound of attrition. He pointed his face toward the floor in defeat, then suddenly looking up to face her once more, his lips pursed, his eyes darting around the room in all directions, not once making contact with hers. She listened closely, hearing him mumble something that was almost inaudible.

"What was that?" Molly asked anxiously, crossing her arms across her chest and taking on a look of curiosity. He looked up at her, mirroring her crossed form and not moving from his position. She listened to him again, hearing him loud and clear.

"I set up an appointment with Mycroft," he told her, now looking directly into her wide eyes and letting his stature take on its soldier form. John placed his arms at his sides, standing tall and erect, and giving a small nod as he told Molly the news.

The statement fell upon her like a load of bricks, hitting her quite unexpectedly, and John could see that his words had struck her as a surprise, watching as her balance became shaky and unstable, his eyes calculating the possibilities of her landing place if she were to fall. He moved his feet forward a bit, but she stepped back slightly, falling backwards into the large armchair that lay directly behind. John ran over to her, only to be pushed away with a firm hand. She drew in a deep breath, attempting to calm herself before she spoke, but it was of no use. Nothing was going to contain her emotions.

"I thought we agreed we would do this on my time?!" She yelled at him, catching him in complete astonishment. Her voiced pierced though the room like knives, sending chills that punctured John's body like large daggers. He approached her cautiously, watching as her hard anger turned to bitter weeping, her face immediately falling into her hands. He listened silently as she sent loud crying noises throughout the entire flat, and he knelt down beside her, placing one hand upon her back, making small circling movements with his fingers.

"You have to tell him," he told her softly, his voice soothing her oncoming tears. "He deserves to know, and I think it's been long enough." He leaned over to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, brushing the hair away from her face that was now soaked with tears. She lifted her face, wiping away the streaks of mascara that leaked down her white cheeks, giving her an almost ghostly appearance. She breathed out slowly, looking directly ahead and not moving, thinking of what to say.

Molly knew that the time was coming to tell Mycroft the news, but truly, she didn't know what she was going to tell him. She knew that Mycroft was fully aware of Sherlock's whereabouts, just as she had been all along, but she had no idea if they had been in contact or what he would do when he learned of the current situation. Was he going to scold her? Or worse, tell Sherlock? She didn't want to think of what Sherlock would do if he found out, jeopardizing his own safety just to see her, and she knew he would... Or would he? Her mind swirled in a torrent of never-ending questions, thinking of the endless possibilities that could unfold as the day went on. She closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh as she did so.

"What time are we supposed to meet with him?" she asked, sounding more brittle than ever. She grabbed John's hand and squeezed it tightly, looking into his eyes as a light mist formed underneath her lashes, giving them a glittery shimmer.

"He wants to see us in an hour, if that's alright," he told her, giving her fingers a gentle clasp, reassuring her that everything was going to be okay. And if it wasn't, he would make it okay. He knew that Molly was scared, and he knew with all of his heart that nothing terrified her more than facing Mycroft's judgement.

This was a big step into her future, and taking it meant practically leaping toward a double edged sword, wielded by Mycroft Holmes himself. On one side, there lay the eternal scorn and hatred of an extremely powerful man with the abilities to cast her life into a world of nightmarish proportions forever. And on the other side... John didn't want to think about what was awaiting on the sharp cliff of possibilities that stained this man's power complex. He could literally do almost anything, and it worried him the think of what he might do to Molly, especially since she was carrying the child of his brother whom he hated so. John closed his eyes, trying to push away any negative thoughts and continuing to squeeze Molly's hand in a gentle hold. He stood up, placing his hands directly in front of her, waiting for her to place hers upon his cold palms.

"We might as well go," he told her, extending his extremities downward in an attempt to help her to her feet. Molly looked at his hands, almost in fear, and knowing what getting up meant. For her, it meant entering into a world of the unknown and taking on the challenge of a potential loathing. This could doom her chances at ever creating a normal family with her dear Sherlock, as if things weren't complicated enough, and now as she sat staring at John's outstretched arms, she wanted nothing more than to shrink down to the tiniest proportions and crawl away into the unknown. It was all so much at one time, but there was nothing, absolutely nothing that she could do to stop it. Slowly, she reached out her fingers, touching the tips of John's with hers and recoiling her grasp at first contact. Then, gradually, she slid her palms into his, allowing him to pull her gently to her feet. She stood silent, keeping her eyes closed and breathing out slowly threw her nostrils.

"I..." she tried to say, her voice pulled back by the invisible strings of fright that seemed to draw it back in. "I still don't know if I can do this." Her voice sounded so small and minute, barely humming through John's ear canals as she spoke. John looked at her with sad eyes, watching as her whole being of happiness and cheer continued to wither away before his very eyes. It was killing him to see his friend like this, and he felt so helpless, knowing that there was hardly anything he could say or do to make it seem better. In fact, there was literally nothing that he could do to take it away completely. He quickly wrapped his arms around his friend, feeling as she buried her face into his jumper.

"It's all going to be okay," he told her, hugging her tightly and speaking to her softly. "I promise it will all be fine. And just remember, I will be with you the entire time. I won't leave you." As he spoke these words, Molly's heart began to beat furiously, sending shivers up and down her spine and tears flowing down her already wet face. She buried her eyes deeper into his thick sweater, trying to push the memory of Sherlock's departure out of her mind, but instead hearing his words of goodbye crisply and clearly as if he were saying them to her right in this moment.

He had also made a promise of sorts. A promise to stay with her always and forever, but now, more than ever, she felt as if he had abandoned her in her time of need. He hadn't done it on purpose, she knew, and he really was in her heart, but it still hurt her all the same to think that he wasn't with her and that it would be almost forever until she would see him again. Hell, she didn't even know if she would see him ever again. Molly had not had any contact with the detective since the day he walked out of her life at the morgue of St. Bart's, and now as she stood enveloped in John's embrace, her heart ached in longing for the presence of her Sherlock. Slowly, she lifted her head, wiping away her tears that still streamed down her face, but trying to compose herself all the same.

John looked down at her, watching as she attempted to stay strong, feeling sorry and scared for her all the same. He did know what it was like to lose someone whom he cared about dearly, but he had no idea what it was like to go through something like this. This was something different that he would never truly understand, but he could try. He looked into her eyes, pulling away from her slightly and brushing away any remnants of tears that speckled her red face. He knew that she wanted to cry even more, but her face was hard, trying to hold back the waters of hurt. He admired her for her strength, but he knew that it was only fleeting. There would still be more tears to come and more worries to be faced.

He couldn't believe that all of this was happening to her so fast, everything seeming to crash down all at once, in more than one sense of the word. He still wished that there was something, anything he could do, but there just wasn't, and wishing would do absolutely no good for either of them. It would only just prolong the anxiety of the situation to be faced, making it even harder for him to get her out the door.

Suddenly, John's mind hardened itself, knowing that if they didn't leave now, they never would. She had to face this challenge, and even though it scared Molly practically to death, she couldn't do anything to avoid it. He pulled himself away from her, walking over to the couch and retrieving her coat from the cushion below and draping it over her small shoulders. He pulled his keys from his pocket, their jingling sending a hollow tone throughout the room, darkening Molly's aura once more. She still didn't want to go, but she knew she must, so she walked over to John reluctantly, looping her arm through his and waiting to be led out the door. They both turned their heads, looking at each other once more, then, turning their faces to the door, they walked through the threshold, heading to meet the man who would seal Molly's fate forever.

*(time lapse)*

The ride from Baker Street to the Diogenes Club on Regent Street seemed to last forever for Molly, time slowing as the wheels of the taxi turned on axle. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours, giving her more time to think about what lay ahead as the streets of London passed them by, blurring into colors of grey and black with every turn. Everything swirled around her as she sat in the dark car, breathing in the smell of old leather and the musk of the taxi drivers cologne, which drifted through the car like a thick fog, gagging her slightly with its bitter smell. She looked out the window, watching as the car made its final turn, and with a swift movement, her hand rushed downward, colliding with John's and grasping it for dear life.

John looked down at his hand from the window, watching and feeling as her grip tightened gradually over his fingers, her tiny hand twisting around his own. He looked up at her face, surveying her every feature and gazing upon her pale cheeks which continued to grow a snowy white as they moved closer and closer to the daunting building, it's fiery presence resonating from every crack and crevice, making both of their hearts jump at its sight. They both sat in silence, waiting as the taxi slowed its speed to a final park, the engine humming in a low drone that bounced off every portico in a phantasmal echo. John fixated his gaze on Molly once more, watching as her other palm came to rest on her stomach, moving to protect the resident inside. He squeezed her hand in return, catching her gaze in his own.

"Are you ready?" He asked in a soft voice as they sat in front of the tall structure, it's shadow casting a shroud of anxiety over what seemed like the entire world. John watched as a single tear formed in the corner of her left eye, drifting down her face like a small waterfall and landing on her belly, disappearing into the fabric of her purple t-shirt. She closed her eyes, swallowing in nervousness and letting the oxygen fall from her lungs all at once, her body slumping down into the seat and practically melding into the cracked leather. She wanted to just disappear, but she had come too far to give up now. Slowly, Molly's hand loosened its grasp on John's, moving toward the door handle. She looked toward him, nodding her head, and with a quick flick, the door latch clicked open, making her heart jump in response. It was time.

John was already out of the car by the time she pushed the door open, his arms reaching down to help her as she staggered from the vehicle. The pair stepped onto the curb, watching as the taxi sped away into the mist of the afternoon, sending chills throughout Molly's extremities. Even if she wanted to turn back now, there was no means of transportation for her to do so, and walking was definitely not an option, for she knew she had come too far to let herself give up at this point. And although her mind was telling her one thing, her heart beckoned for her to stay strong and carry on, and to be the woman her father had raised her to be.

Slowly, she closed her eyes, willing her body to stay in place, not moving an inch further away from the building and letting her hands come to rest on the sleeve of John's coat. To her, his presence was now a great comfort in her soul, soothing the flames which licked at her heart with embers of fear and worry, eating away at her very center. Deep down, she could feel his confidence boiling over into her as he stood tall, facing the giant like David facing Goliath in the Valley of Elah, armed with almost nothing, but ready and willing to take down another's foe at the cost of his own. She watched him, his face hard and emotionless, staring straight ahead, and following his gaze, she too caught sight of what he was looking at, her heart sinking once more.

Two large, wooden doors, standing tall and erect, faced both of them in a menacing stature, creating a seamless barrier between them and the inner workings of the lair of the beast. Grey stone steps rose from the sidewalk, marking the entrance to the sanctum like a gateway to Hell, signifying this fortress of power that now lay before them. To anyone else, it would have been a normal address on the streets of London, but to Molly, it was a nightmare becoming reality. Her grip tightened around John's arms, her nails digging into the fabric of his jacket, holding on with all her might.

John looked down at her, watching as her eyes widened in fear, her hands continuing to tug on his sleeve. He reached up with his other hand, placing it on top of hers in a gentle hold, once again reassuring her that everything was going to be fine. Frankly, he was scared too, but he wasn't going to let her know in the slightest. It wasn't his place to be fearful, and he had to keep his strong appearance for her sake. He leaned over, giving her a peck on the forehead, and drawing in a short breath, his face turned serious once more, returning to its previous position.

"I can do this," he heard Molly whisper to herself, his face giving a slight smile as he listened. He was so proud of her for making it this far, knowing what a struggle it had been for her internally, taking everything within her soul to get her here, but still, they weren't through yet. He knew he had to get her moving in any way possible, or else they would never make it any closer to the door.

Slowly, he placed one foot in front of the other, ignoring the resistance that she created as he pulled her forward, her body fighting to move away. Finally, she gave way, her feet catching up with his pace as they moved closer and closer to the threshold, closing in the gap meters at a time. They walked up the steps, taking them one at a time, and finally, they both stood only inches from the great covered aperture, their breath fogging the window that framed their presence in a blurry portrait.

John reached down for the buzzer with his free hand, only to be greeted by the clack of the the lock as it popped open, making him aware that they already knew of his presence. They both watched as the door slowly creaked open, revealing a small man who beckoned them inside, wearing a look of surprise on his wrinkled face. Molly studied him with keen eyes, watching as he closed the door behind them as they stepped through, locking it without making a sound. It was rather peculiar to her, but still, she didn't question, not wanting to upset anyone in this silent establishment.

Yes, she had heard of the Diogenes club and their odd ways of doing things, but this was just completely bonkers being looked upon in almost disgust. She knew that this was a place generally meant for men only, but John had made sure that they would be aware of the circumstances of their guests. Or had he? Molly looked up at him. Her eyes narrowing into straight lines.

"John," she said in a short whisper, "you did tell them that I..."

"SHHH!" the old man exclaimed in a rude manner, if shushing can be considered rude. His skinny finger came up to his mouth in a silent gesture, telling her to be quiet in what seemed like the loudest way possible, giving her a glare that pierced her body like needles. She quieted herself, mentally scorning her behavior as they walked through the labyrinthine halls of the building, twisting and turning every which way and that, walking through rooms filled with distinguished looking men as they stared at her when she walked by. Now she was sure that John hadn't told Mycroft the entire truth, making her even more apprehensive as they made their way to the belly of the house.

Molly pulled on John's jacket, catching his attention and giving him a look of great disdain. He shook his head, turning his attention back to the long corridor that lay in front of them, watching as the little man waddled back and forth, leading them to the office at the other end. He turned around, motioning for them to quicken their pace with his lithe hand, his fingers wiggling in the air as he did so, and when they finally caught up to him, he was already standing at the door of the office, his fingers curled around the knob tightly, waiting to open the door.

Molly looked up at the plaque that hung on the wood, the etched letters glittering too brilliantly for her to read, but she already knew what they said. Her stomach tumbled and twisted into knots, making her feel nauseated in the slightest bit, and she placed her hand atop it, trying to soothe the bubbling furry inside her body. She breathed out slowly, pushing the air through her mouth and taking in the coolness of the room around. John looked at her once more with a questioning glance, wondering if she was alright, and she nodded in response, closing her eyes once more.

The little old man looked at them both, rolling his eyes in judgement as their sentiment filled the room with what he considered an uncomfortable presence. And then, without any gestures of any kind, he twisted the handle, catching both of their attentions with a simple flick, pushing the open the door and revealing the large room that had been hidden only moments ago.

(point of view change)

Mycroft sat at his desk, watching as John and Molly walked into the room, his eyes widening in surprise as the young girl walked into his office without a word. The door closed behind them with a loud BANG, leaving them both standing in the middle of his office, looking frightened and altogether uncomfortable. Why hadn't John told him that she was coming? And why had she come? He could clearly see that she was with child, but it didn't concern him in the least, unless they wanted money, and he wasn't willing to give any at the moment. Slowly, he stood up from his chair, grabbing his umbrella and proceeding to swing it around awkwardly, prancing about the room in arrogance.

"Hello, John," he said, watching as the tip of the umbrella reached it's arch again and again, coming down in a grand swoop each time. He was already annoyed by their existence in the room, and making eye contact with either of them would make it even worse, so he continued to feign interest in other things, his eyes never coming into contact with them as he spoke. "What is it you wanted to talk about?" He walked over to the window, peering out over the now rainy horizon and watching as the storm proceeded to slide toward the city, concealing everything in its path. He looked through the corner of his eye, catching glimpses of their reflection in the glass.

"We need to talk, Mycroft," John said, he too becoming annoyed by Mycroft's lack of interest. He had never been this rude to him before, which was a grand achievement for the older Holmes brother, but this was just to the point of ridiculousness.

"Well, I must say, I was under that impression when you called me," he sneered, fueling John's anger even more. Mycroft turned on his heel toward the table by the wall, walking over to pour himself a bit of scotch on the rocks before returning to his little game of swing the umbrella. He placed his glass back in its proper place, continuing to annoy John even further. Finally, John gave Molly a slight nudge, pushing her to speak.

"Mycroft..." she said in a child-like voice, her words barely audible over the thunder that cracked throughout the town. "Mycroft, I'm pregnant." Her words felt like fire coming out of her mouth, burning the tip of her tongue like coals as they tumbled from her throat. She closed her eyes, gulping hard as she did so, waiting for a response, watching as he turned to face her, still not making eye contact.

"Yes, I suppose you are, my dear, " he told her, his back facing them yet again in an attempt to keep his annoyance at bay. "It doesn't take a qualified physician to see that, and quite frankly... I don't think this concerns me. " His voice was grating, pulling on John's nerves like the strings of a marionette, his emotions doing a small dance as the invisible puppeteer tugged at them constantly. Suddenly, he pulled himself away from Molly, walking closer to Mycroft in an attempt to catch his attention. Molly reached out to stop him from doing anything rash, but she was too late, and before he knew what he was doing, he opened his mouth to speak.

"Well considering the baby belongs to your BROTHER, I think it does concern you!" John's orotund voice was capped by a clap of thunder that rolled throughout the building like an earthquake, shaking Mycroft to the core. He jammed the tip of his umbrella into the carpet, not believing what he had just heard and turning around to face the pair, his eyes narrow, but still making contact with John's for the first time. They both stood silent, staring at each other in an apparent stand off.

"What did you say about Sherlock?" he asked in confusion, trying to take it all in, not knowing what else to say. His eyes darted over to Molly who was now sitting in one of the armchairs, her hands resting on her round belly. Her eyes were large with fear, looking into his as they widened with surprise, gaping at the current situation. He looked back over at John, searching for answers.

"It's his," he heard a female voice say, making both he and John look in Molly's direction. "The baby is his. It's Sherlock's." Her voice was tranquil and soothing like sweet wine, fading out as she spoke her lover's name, almost with a slight giggle. This was so much easier than she had ever imagined it would be, finally admitting that this wonderful creation was a piece of him. This baby was a piece of Sherlock Holmes, the man whom she was deeply and irrevocably in love with, and she didn't care what his brother thought.

Mycroft watched as her lips pursed into a small smile as she looked down at where her baby lay, gazing at her as she pushed herself out of the chair in a small victory. John ran over to her side, helping her become steady once more, and within a few seconds, she was walking over to Mycroft, his eyes never moving from her abdomen. His mind was swirling in a mass of questions, each one of them carrying a certain level of importance, but right in this moment, his mouth had for once lost its ability to move, rendering him speechless. He continued to watch her until she was standing within arms reach, his fingers twitching in nervousness, dropping his umbrella to the ground.

"Umm..." was all he could muster, his mind holding back any words that came to him as he attempted to speak. "Erm... May I?" He gestured his hand toward her, wanting to touch where his brother's child lay growing, just beneath the surface of this precious woman, healthy and beautiful. She nodded her head, reaching for his hand with her own, and grabbing his wrist, she placed his palm atop her stomach, watching as his expression seemed to melt into a grand smile.

Mycroft let his hand relax as he felt a small kick, making all three of them chuckle. He had never experienced anything like this before, and it almost made him happy, his mind not worrying about how or why it had happened. And he knew that John wanted to talk, but there was nothing to actually say. He had been able to see the relationship between she and Sherlock blossoming over the past year, watching as she flirted about here and there, and laughing internally as he would be completely oblivious, but then finally understand moments later. Plus, this had obviously happened before the fall, and Mycroft knew how babies came to be, so he spared her the obligation of explaining the details because he practically already knew the whole story.

Mycroft could feel a tear welling up in his right eye, begging to pour forth from the floodgates, making him feel slightly embarrassed as he did so, and he cleared his throat rather viciously. Quickly, he stood up, looking Molly in the eyes and smiling his Mycroft smile. Suddenly, her smile vanished slightly, her mind knowing exactly what he was thinking. For a moment, she had forgotten that he too knew about the suicide bluff, and now that she remembered, her heart fluttered in a panic, making her face turn a light red. John looked at her, wondering what was wrong.

"Molly, are you okay?" He asked, grabbing her arm cautiously. Mycroft knew that she was thinking exactly the same thought, fearing what he would do with this new information. Slowly, he grabbed her other arm, helping John guide her to the other side of the room and into the chair that sat by the door. She sat down, continuing to stare at him, but now fanning herself with her little hand. He looked down into her eyes, winking to her in a sense of knowing, and assuring her that her secret was safe with him. He wasn't going to tell anyone who didn't need to know, and she knew, even without any words being spoken. Finally, her pulse returned to normal, bringing her face back to its light tone.

"Well, I guess we'd better be going then?" John asked, looking a bit confused by their silent exchange, but not saying a word about it. He reached down and helped Molly out of her chair, helping her balance herself once again as she stood leaning against the wall. Mycroft watched as she looped her arm through John's once more, his hand coming to rest atop hers just as it had when they walked in not twenty minutes ago. It had certainly been a quick exchange, but it really was just the right length for what needed to be said, which was almost nothing, so it had been perfect. But even though he really did want Molly to stay so he could talk about his soon to be niece or nephew, he knew that he must let them go, so he kept himself quiet, watching as they opened the door and slipped out, John giving him a small nod as the latch clicked behind.

Hurriedly, Mycroft ran over to the window, watching as the hailed a taxi and climbed in, waving goodbye as they sped away into the London fog. He had never felt like this ever before, wondering why he was so happy, but also feeling nervous all the same. Then, suddenly, his happiness dissipated, his gaze catching glimpse of the phone that sat on his desk, radiating a ray of white light, signifying a notification. He walked over, picking it up and noticing that the text was simply from John, his unopened message from hours ago still sitting on the screen. He stared at the letters, watching as the faded into themselves over and over, blurring into a great blob of black writing. He dismissed the message, pressing the home button and raising his phone to his pocket once more to place it inside, but suddenly, he paused pulling his phone into view once more.

Mycroft looked down at the screen, the passcode keyboard blinking, waiting for someone to enter a code and peruse the many files inside. In an instant, his fi her couldn't control themselves, flying across the screen with lightning precision, composing a new message in a heartbeat. He pressed the folder which held Sherlock's messages, typing out a small text, hoping that he would get a reply.

'We need to talk,' was all it read, just like John previous message to him had been earlier that day. He pressed the send button, watching a yet another message labeled itself with 'delivered', making him sigh in exasperation. Then, without thinking, he typed out another text, sending it off even more quickly: 'It's about Molly.'

Mycroft watched the screen with great anticipation, his heart leaping and racing as he waited for the message to go through, but to his dismay, it too labeled itself 'delivered', giving him the feeling that Sherlock was truly dead. He hung his head low, leaning back on his desk and letting his phone drop to his side. He lifted it back up to look at it one last time, but this time, there was something different. He watched, his eyes widening as the message changed from 'delivered' to 'read', giving him an internal sense of happiness. He held the phone closer to his face, waiting for anything else to happen, hoping that anything would. There was no one who had the code to his brother's phone other than Sherlock himself, and he knew he had seen it.

Mycroft's eyes crossed as he continued to look at the screen, his nose centimeters away from colliding with the glass. They strained to see the keyboard, making him feel as though he were going to go blind, but just as his index finger made it to the top button to turn the screen black, he stopped, for three grey dots had appeared in the bottom left corner of the screen, and he knew what that meant. Someone was typing out a message in reply.


	8. Chapter 8

As the storm that swept through the city continued to beat down upon the homes and buildings that dotted the English landscape, Sherlock Holmes sat inside his small studio flat, listening to the rain as it pattered upon the rooftop and gazing at his phone with wide eyes, reading Mycroft's messages over and over again. He could feel his heartbeat accelerating, his brow forming small beads of sweat as he continued to stare harder and harder at the screen, trying to take in every last word. And though the unease continued to pound in his skull like the thunder that roared throughout the sky, he sat on his bed still and unmoving, studying his phone in incredulity.

Pregnant? With a baby? But how could this be? These were the questions that filled his mind as he leaned back, rubbing his eyes in bewilderment and letting out a sigh of pure confusion. He remembered everything as if it had been yesterday, the wonderful night with his Molly coming back in a flood of happiness and wonderment, making him smile to himself slightly. He could almost feel the touch of her smooth hands as they ran their way down his chest and caressed his neck, her fingers lacing through his ebony curls, tugging on them as he kissed her neck deeply. He could smell the sweet scent of her soft hair, the fragrance of apples and lotus blossoms wafting through the air as they made love to one another, their bodies becoming one in a feeling of love and passion.

Everything about that night made Sherlock's mind run wild, his entire being enthralled by the beautiful woman whom he had fallen so deeply in love with. But now that he knew that their love for each other had created another life, he couldn't stop feeling as if he had made a mistake, for he now knew that leaving Molly had meant leaving her to go through this by herself, scared and uncertain of what was to come. Of course, he had no idea that this was going to happen, but he couldn't help but feel as if he should have stayed longer, or just long enough to know she was alright. As of this moment, there had been no contact with her since the day he walked away, leaving him unsure of her circumstances and making him long to be with her more than ever.

Sherlock bolted upright, his unbuttoned shirt draping over him like a curtain of black satin, enveloping his shoulders and leaving his chest bare in the chill of the afternoon drear. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, pressing them firmly into the carpet and watching as they sank into the plush strands of fabric that had been thickened by decades' dust. Their finger-like tentacles released thousands of particles from years of tread, filling the air with a haze of sorrow, leaving the room foggy with discontent. The detective gently placed the tips of his fingers together and pressed them to his lips, watching as the small gathering rose into the air, dissipating in the rays of golden sunlight that escaped through a sudden break in the clouds, only to be swallowed up in grayness once more as the rain choked out its beautiful luminance.

Slowly, Sherlock stood up, pacing about the room in solicitude as his mind

abounded with questions, his hands coming to rest on his hips in deep thought. He closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh, not having the slightest clue as of what to do next, and it was killing him to the bitter end. He had no idea how to be a father, and even if he did, it was of no help from his own. Hell, when he was a child himself, his own father was never home, but instead always at 'the office', leaving his older brother Mycroft to fill in the void of a male figure in his life. And when he was home, it wasn't hard for the small child to catch the faint smell of perfume, which did not belong to his mother, lingering on his father's tweed coat as he leaned down to hug the boy. It had only been a matter of time before his mother caught on, and in less than a year, she was raising two boys on her own, divorced from his father, dripping in riches, and sending both of her children off to boarding school to receive a better education. But in doing so, his mummy was unknowingly ripping little Sherlock away from his only role model.

Since eight years of age, he had been his own guiding force, teaching himself how to be strong and take control of the situation, with no one to push him toward others who might have helped him along the way. Each teacher saw him as a pure genius, but still they continued their efforts in teaching him further, knowing that he already knew most of the material. And every other student who wasn't intimidated by his intellect thought he was just a freak and a smart ass, landing him face first in the loo more than once and beaten up in the corridors more times than he cared to count. Each time it happened, he would run to his dorm, curling up in the corner and crying for his brother to come for him, writing letter after letter through his tears, begging for Mycroft to come help. He sent them in secret, but each time, they returned to him, clean and unopened, hardening his heart a little more each time, and sparking a deep hatred for the one he used to love so dearly.

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling and remembering each blow as it struck his face, recalling the name of every person who had ever hurt him, and thinking to himself that if maybe, just maybe, if his father had been around instead of having an affair, maybe he would have known how to protect himself. Suddenly, small streams of tears began to roll down his face in a tiny cascade, falling from his sharp cheekbones and soaking into the carpet below as his mind continued to swim in a sea of questioning thoughts. What if he messed up? And even worse, what if he was just like his own father? Sherlock could hear his heart pounding in his ears, the blood rushing toward his head in a tidal wave of anguish as he continued to pace back and forth, his feet carrying him from one side of the room to the other.

'NO!' he thought, screaming at himself internally. 'No, I will NOT be like him!' Quickly, he reached down into his pocket, grasping his phone and dialing Mycroft's number, his hands shaking in fury as they tapped across the screen in a flash of emotion. He listened, waiting for his brother to answer his damn mobile, begging silently for him to pick up the other line as he waited for someone, anyone, to retrieve the ringing device that he knew sat on his brother's desk, calling out for some person to answer. The line went to voicemail, sending him into a fit, and with one swift motion, he threw the phone onto the bed, watching as it bounced across the mattress and into the crack between the wall and bedposts, making a small THUD as it hit the floor below.

Sherlock stood in the center of the room, staring through the window and watching as the rain continued to pound harder and harder on the city, peering at each drop as it washed away downhill, falling into the rush of the Thames and never to be seen again. He closed his eyes, imagining himself as one of them, falling into the bigger body of water and being carried away to far off places without a care in the world, traveling abroad at the speed of nature. It seemed so peaceful and so full of relaxation, putting his mind at ease just thinking about it, almost feeling his own worries melt away with the downpour. He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, reassuring himself that everything was going to be fine, and filling his body with a surge of confidence that spread itself throughout every extremity.

He had to see Molly, his arms tingling in longing to hold her close to himself, feeling the warmth of her glow as he caressed her face with his slender hand. Of course, there was the risk of revealing himself to John, but it was a risk that he was willing to take, his mind only focusing on Molly, who he now knew as the mother of his child as well. He had to make sure that she was alright, and if that meant risking his own life to do so, it was a chance he would have to take, for without seeing her, he felt he might fall into insanity.

Slowly, Sherlock reached up to his chest, buttoning his shirt with care, and, fastening the last piece of plastic that held his clothes in place, he reached into the closet, taking out his black suit jacket and slipping it over his button down. He walked over to the mirror, catching a glimpse of himself, so ethereal and mysterious in all black, his pale skin contrasting against the darkness of his outer coverings quite nicely. Shadows from around the room cast themselves on his face, making him look like an angel of darkness and giving him a sense of invincibility. It had been almost four months since he had looked like this, his back straight, shoulders poised in an aristocratic manner, ready for action, his eyes burning with the delight of the chase. But instead of the fiery passion for excitement which he held so dear to his heart, they glowed with a more loving shimmer, filling his soul with happiness as he thought of his lovely Molly, making him smile brightly.

Suddenly, his legs sprang forward, his body leaping toward the chair at the other end of the room, pulling on his coat in excitement, and, tugging it from the the seat, it fluttered to the floor in a massive heap. He picked up his blue scarf, wrapping around his neck and looping it through itself in his signature style, it's dark color bringing out the pigments of dark blues that hid behind his aquamarine corneas, making them pop with brightness. Sherlock reached down, picking up his thick coat and holding it in both arms, feeling the texture of the tweed beneath his fingers, the contrast of soft and rough creating the perfect combination as he ran his hand over the surface. He closed his eyes, remembering the adventures that he had embarked on while wearing it, and now, it was going to follow him into a new adventure, one of which he had no idea of the possibilities, but one for which he was still willing to take a leap of faith.

Sherlock raised his coat to his eye level, looking over it with great care and picturing himself wrapping it around his newborn child, cradling them in his arms as they drifted to sleep. In truth, he was still frightened by the thought of a tiny human growing inside of another person, but now, as he imagined his baby lying in his arms, so small and warm, he was fully intrigued and enthralled by the thought of becoming devoted to this small extension of his being. This was his DNA, part of his own life force, and he could do nothing except smile as he envisioned tiny fingers wrapping themselves around his own, clinging to him as they lay in the safety of his arms.

He opened his eyes, looking down at his arms which were now held close to his body, cradling his coat as if it were a child itself, his body rocking back and forth in a gentle sway. He chuckled to himself, feeling a bit foolish for his sudden sentiment, but at the same time, he didn't feel foolish at all. The idea of caring being a disadvantage had never been his philosophy, but instead, his brother's, and over time, it had somehow found a way to penetrate his mind, melding into his own thoughts and hardening his heart to anything that required sympathy. But now, as he snuggled the belstaff closer to his chest, he could feel a piece of his machinelike heart unscrewing itself, revealing the humanness that lay underneath.

Suddenly, Sherlock was pulled out of his trance by the sound of the landline ringing, sending his body into a stiff position, his arms dropping to his sides in an almost automatic reaction. He walked over to the desk, picking up the receiver in his hand, and, looking down at the bright orange screen, he rolled his eyes, pressing the the green answer button with disgust and bringing the phone to his ear.

"Well now," he said, his voice speaking in a rather sarcastic tone, barely giving the other person a chance to speak, "did you actually decide to call me back on a whim or is the queen having trouble locating her crown again?" He listened closely, smirking to himself and hearing as Mycroft let out a sigh of exasperation, ignoring his brother's condescending remarks as he always did. Sherlock could practically feel his brother bubbling with anger on the other end of the phone, his head threatening to burst with every second that passed and his fingers clutching his umbrella like a lifeline that would pull him back to sanity. Mycroft calmed himself, breathing in deeply,

"Honestly, Sherlock," he began, "can't I just call because I'm worried about you?" The word 'worried' rolled out of his mouth like vinegar and hit Sherlock's ears like ice, splitting the air like a burning scythe and setting the young detective into a state of utter vexation. He felt his blood beginning to boil, sending him into a massive rage.

"Worried. Worried?" He asked, his voice becoming louder with every word and booming throughout what seemed like the entire building. "Do you really believe that you are in a position to be talking to me about being bloody WORRIED?" Sherlock's face turned a deep red, his body trembling in anger as he stood by the desk, clutching the phone in his palm with the strength of a thousand men. He couldn't believe his brother's gall, talking to him about being worried, knowing good and well of Sherlock's current situation. He hated himself for sitting in hiding while Molly, the love of his life, sat in her flat, watching her stomach grow bigger and bigger each day, living minute to minute as she waited for something, anything to happen. He could only imagine the fear that she hid inside, and now as he held Mycroft's attention, her fear became his anger, pooling up inside his soul and lashing out at his brother, grabbing at him through the phone like fiery serpents, biting at his heart.

Mycroft listened as Sherlock screamed at him, his roaring tongue eating him away slowly as he stood with his own mobile pressed to his face, taking in every word which he shouted through the air. This was pure agony, hearing as his baby brother screamed at him with scorn, his hatred churning just so and seeming to melt him into the floor where he stood. He couldn't stand this, knowing how much Sherlock anathematized his name in the depths of his heart, aching his very core with sadness translated into the backhanded disdain which his little brother saw radiating from his surface. He loved his brother with his entire being, so much so that as he listened to the man screaming cursed accusations, he held on tight, taking in his sweet voice which he had not heard for months. Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling his heart spilling over with emotion, and just as his soul began to burst, he felt a small teardrop fall down his face, stinging with every movement.

"Sherlock," he croaked out, his voice barely audible beneath the rasp of wet tears that threatened to choke back every word. "Sherlock, I was merely trying to..."

"What were you attempting to do, Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered, now leaning on the small desk, his body weight threatening to crush it under the pressure of his touch. "Discourage me from doing anything stupid? Tell me that caring is a disadvantage and that going to her would spell the ruin of the British government? Truly you, of all people, should know that I have no need for your advice and that I don't intend to take it." The condescension in his voice cut through the room like a knife slicing through water, swiftly and sharply like the wind that howled throughout the city streets just outside his window, chilling everything to the very center. His long fingers rapped continuously on the hard surface of the table, playing out a melancholy tune which mocked the beating of his own heart, mirroring each pulse with a heavy smack of fingertips.

Sherlock continued to rant on and on, his heartbreak now seeping from the vacant exterior which he had built and molded so meticulously over the years, breaking it apart piece by piece as he yelled at his blood relative, his whole persona of an emotionless machine crumbling to the floor around him. He could feel his brother's mental scorn pouring from the receiver in his hand, telling him that this was wrong, that he shouldn't be so sentimental, but with each unspoken torment, his mind combatted every sentence with his love for Molly. She was the one keeping him grounded, keeping him sane as he fussed into the day, and nothing was going to stop him, not even his brother, from getting to her. Suddenly, he stopped yelling, his voice becoming softer, but still carrying an air of edginess.

"Mycroft, I am going to see her," he said, swallowing hard, his chest heaving up and down, straining for breath. "And whatever you have to say to me, whatever advice you plan on giving, know that I will not listen. I love this woman more than I have ever loved anyone, and she means more to me than my own life." Sherlock paused, his voice lulling to a low rumble and silencing as he stood in his room, the air seeming to become cooler as he finished his thoughts. He closed his eyes, collecting himself before speaking again.

"You know me better than anyone," he continued, trying not to sound too sympathetic, "and you know how hard it is for me to build relationships with anyone, especially intimate ones. I have never been comfortable with the thought of sharing my life with another person, but Molly is different. She makes me realize how imperfect I am, how broken I am inside, because she is the most perfect thing that I have ever come across. She baffles me in a beautiful way that I just can't comprehend, and I have never wanted anything more than I want to be with her. I love her." Slowly, his voice drifted off, leaving the line silent for a good moment while he waited to hear his brother's laughter on the other end. He waited nervously to hear snide remarks come through while he stood there waiting, wanting to wither away while he listened. But he heard nothing.

"I..." His brother brother began, breaking the silence with his small syllable. Sherlock heard him sigh in desolation, contemplating his next words carefully.

"Sherlock," Mycroft continued, his voice dragging out the word into a rather long stretch, "I was calling to tell you that I have sent a car to your residence. The driver will take you wherever you want to go, and..." He paused again, obviously wondering if he should continue with his sentence. Sherlock waited in anxiety, wanting to know more. He gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white and his mind swirling as he waited.

"Just...," his brother started again, his voice softer than normal, "just be careful..." Mycroft let the words slide out and away into the void of the world, disappearing into oblivion as he finished his sentence, his voice drifting off into a seeming expanse of air. This was so hard for him to do, letting his little brother go out on his own with the eminent threat of a heart broken mess hanging in the rafters. What if Molly had already found someone else? And what if she rejected Sherlock as soon as he walked through the door? Mycroft's head spun with questions as he waited for Sherlock to answer, contemplating if he had done the right thing.

"I... I don't know what to say," Sherlock answered, his voice almost confused by this act of kindness. He slowly walked over to the window, catching a glimpse of the black Cadillac that sat outside his building, waiting for him to come through the ground floor doors and enter the vehicle, concealed by its tinted windows which were dark enough to hide anything within the car. He stared at it, wondering why his brother, of all people, had sent it for him, knowing how much he hated the man. It was certainly peculiar, on an extreme level, but as much as he wanted to question Mycroft's motives, he couldn't. This was it. This was the car that would take him to see her.

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped the phone onto the desk, ignoring Mycroft as he continued to speak to the empty space and leaning down to pick up his coat from the floor. He slipped it over his clothes without hesitation, feeling as its warm interior enveloped his body in a cloak of comfort, stretching from his shoulders to almost his feet in one flawless sheet of material. He continued to fix himself, constantly pushing the sound of Mycroft's voice on the phone out of his head. His brother's cries of 'Sherlock, are you even listening to me?' and 'Dear brother, would you please say something?' barely even registered in his mind as he made a beeline for the door of his room, pulling it open and running down the hall toward the stairs, his coat trailing behind in the movement of air as he ran past.

Step after step he zipped down, spinning on pivot point at every turn and corner, hurrying to the car awaiting his arrival at the edge of the curb, until finally, he burst through the front door, running toward the car and plunging into the backseat, already soaked from the torrential downpour. He sat with his back against the leather, his hair and clothing dripping with water that landed on the seat and rolled down in tiny drops onto the floorboards as he sat, waiting for the driver to speak to him.

"Where would you like to go, Mr. Holmes?" the young man asked, his eyes wide with surprise as he peered at the disheveled Sherlock through the rear view, taking in his now messy appearance. He reached over into his passenger seat, retrieving a small towel, giving it to the detective who snatched at it viciously, drying every piece of skin and attempting to properly adjust his curls back into their places. He looked like a secondary school girl, primping for a date as he fixed himself, moving is clothes this way and that, and finally, after a few minutes of bringing himself back to his satisfaction, Sherlock sat upright, looking as poised and ready as ever. The driver bit his lip, trying to stifle a small laugh.

"Is there anywhere in particular you would like to visit," the driver asked again, looking at Sherlock in an almost pleading manner, his eyes begging for a destination of some kind. He waited for an answer, continuously staring at his new passenger.

"187 North Gower Street, London," Sherlock told the young man, his voice demanding and practically begging for the car to move in a direction away from Cardiff. He was ready to see her, ready to hold her in his arms, and this waiting was just an unnecessary nuisance standing between him and his Molly. He stared relentlessly at the chauffeur, his icy eyes searing through the man's flesh, urging him to move, and finally, he put the car in drive.

"Right away, Sir," the driver told him, never once turning around to look at his new company, and without any more hesitation, the car pulled away from the curb, speeding off in the direction of London, toward the one place which Sherlock could truly call home.


	9. Chapter 9

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_ Hello, love. I'm so sorry I haven't written to you in a while, but life has just been so hectic lately. You know, doctor's appointments and buying things to decorate the baby's room. Which is funny because we still don't know the gender, so everything is practically yellow, green, or white. But, John insisted that we start purchasing things early because we wouldn't want all of the expenses falling on us all at once, and he is right, it's just rather tedious when you don't know what the baby is yet. Do you know how hard it was to find a white cradle in this city? Practically impossible, but thank God Greg had one from when his daughter was born. I don't know what we would have done without him. _

_ Everyone has been so helpful over this past month, helping us with the groceries when John has to take me to an appointment or cleaning up around the flat, even though I insist on doing it myself. Mrs. Hudson has also been helping me pick out some names, too. We were thinking 'Emily Adelaide' if it's a girl, after my sister and your mother, and if it's a boy, we thought about 'William Gregory', after my father and Greg, because I know how he has been like a father to you over the years. We picked them out because they sounded like names you would choose, so I hope you like them. And I swear, I think Mrs. Hudson went through about 15 different books looking up names, and it took some time not knowing what you would like, but I think we finally got it. _

_ Sherlock, I love you so much and I'm managing, but you not being here is absolute torture. John still misses you, and he still won't eat like he used to, Greg shaved his head right after you jumped, and even Sally and Anderson aren't themselves lately. There just seems to be this invisible force that everyone knows is there, but no one wants to talk about it, so they distract themselves with work, just like you did. But poor John... I know he feels it. He has to every time he sees me and he sees my stomach. I can see it in his face when he looks at me, and God bless the man for trying so hard, but its just so difficult for him. He needs you back, and sometimes I think more than I do._

_ God, I miss you so much, and I wish you were here with me. It would just make things so much easier, not to mention how much I bloody need you because it's killing me not having you around. And I know John is doing the best that he can, but he isn't you. He's not who I love. I wish you could come back, but I know you can't, so just promise me that until you do, you will continue to stay safe. I want you to be able to come home and hold our baby, and I want to see your smile when you look into their eyes. I want to hold your warm hand, knowing that we are a family and knowing that you are mine always and forever, without having to worry about your wellbeing. And I just want you home... Please, just come home._

_Be safe, my love._

_~ Molly_

* * *

Molly bit the end of her pen, chewing on the black cap as she stared at the letter in her hands, rereading her words for a third time as hot tears began to stream down her tired face. Each stroke across the parchment swooped and curled with emotion, sealing her longing in timeless ink on the white plane of despair, pulling her further away from reality and into her own world of painful bliss. She began to let her mind wander, hearing her Sherlock's velvety voice ringing throughout her head like soothing honey, rumbling and pouring over every inch of space available for the taking, and she could almost feel his warm arms wrapping around her in tender-hearted affection as his voice grew louder within, taking over her senses as it did most nights.

None of this was new to her, this little routine which she had created only a few days after she realized her unplanned pregnancy, but for some unexplained circumstance, this night was different. Never had her letters been so difficult to compose, and never had she felt so much pain and sorrow while writing to her beloved, her feelings of love and pure happiness pouring forth from her pen. But on this night, as she sat in her room listening to the pattering of raindrops on the roof above, there was something stirring inside of her heart which fanned the flame of her burning love into a roaring fire, sending her emotions into a spiral of silent tears and bitter heartbreak. Was it her fear that Sherlock was dead and would never be able to see their child? Or even worse, the plight of his never returning to see the baby because of cowardice or sentimental trepidation?

Slowly, Molly leaned back, holding the crisp paper in her hands and closing her eyes, silently begging God that her anxieties be taken from her sad soul and lifted from her little shoulders in a lightening load. In her mind, everything seemed to be crashing down all at once, and ever since she had gone to see Mycroft that afternoon, it had all become so much worse. The tears had continued to pour from the time she stepped foot into the cab to the moment John had walked out the door of her flat, returning to his own for God knows how long until he came back to her in the morning. Plus, she already knew deep down in the pit of her soul that the other Holmes had contacted the younger, so how was she to know what was going to happen now? Already was she uncertain of many current circumstances, but going to see the man had done nothing but compound the problem, making her edgier and more emotional than she had ever been before, and in her flood of horrible anxiety, all she could do was blame her best friend.

Yes. It was John. It was all John's fault. He was the one who made her go speak to Mycroft. He was the one who had left her alone in her sorrows while she cried her river of tears, flooding her bed in an ocean of despair. It was all John! But then again, how could it be his fault? He was not the man who had left her in this state, pregnant, lonely, and scared of what was to come. John was not the man who had come into her life for one night, only to leave her the next day with his child growing inside of her. No, it was not John at all. It was Sherlock. At the thought of his sweet name, Molly's body gave in, letting out a large wail of immense proportions and filling the room with her chilling sobs as she sunk deeper and deeper under the covers, burying her face in the tear-stained sheets and pulling the letter closer to her heart.

'Why did he leave me?' She thought silently, racking her brain for answers but finding none which could adequately pacify her question. He didn't have to leave. He could have stayed with her in the apartment, working from her home while hiding all the same in the safety of her love. Or even so, why didn't he call at least once to make sure she was alright? Was he dead? Did he just not care? The possibilities in Molly's head were endless, piling up like a strange mountain with cliffs of malice and chasms filled with rocky bottoms of fear, waiting to grab her heart and pull her head first into a pit of depression. She didn't understand his reasonings, and maybe she never would, but it still pained her all the same. And slowly, her tears began to lessen, turning into small whispers that escaped her lips in painful begging and putting her soul into faded darkness.

"Sherlock, please come home," she sobbed to herself, breathing in the aroma of the fabric, almost smelling the lingering scent of his Attimo cologne still trapped within the threads. It was pure bliss, his sweet spice pouring into her nostrils and moving through her body in a monstrous wave, warming her to the very core, so powerfully sensational that it was as if he was standing by her bedside, watching her as she wept. Her mind floated away to places of happiness, imagining the sheets morphing into his long, wonderful arms, wrapping around her in comforting heat and pulling her closer to him in a deserved embrace. Her tears nearly gone and her face almost smiling, her entire world changed into a happy place, filled with nothing but her consulting detective. His ebony curls. His beautiful smile. Everything that made her love him for who he was.

Molly opened her eyes slightly, looking around the room as the light from her lamp poured forth, illuminating a small portion of her bedroom in a yellow glow, the mahogany nightstand bathed in golden light. She reached her hand outward, placing the now crinkled paper upon its top where the other unsent letters lay and quickly withdrawing her arm back into her cocoon of warmth, her eyes darting around the grey room in ardent longing, nothing changing in the seemingly endless night as she lay in her bed. It was all the same, all just as she had left it, but for some reason, she felt as if something was different. Molly propped herself up on one arm, scanning every detail of the four walls and furniture with scrutinizing eyes. There was something off, but what was it? She glared at every corner, peered at every picture, but still she could not see anything wrong, for even the chair in the corner still held her... Black coat and scarf? Slowly, her eyes widened and she leapt out of bed, running over to the garments.

'This can't be real,' she thought. 'This isn't real.' Gently, she reached down with both hands toward the coat, wondering if it would vanish before her very eyes until she placed her fingers upon the tweed, her touch recoiling ever so slightly. She reached over, taking the scarf in both of her hands, and, pressing it to her face, she breathed in, smelling his cologne once more, almost enough to make her faint. This was real and this was happening, but how? Was it some sick joke John was playing in her? Or was she dreaming?

Molly closed her eyes once more, opening them again only to find the coat lying where it had been a moment ago, still and unmoving, eliminating the possibility of a dream and raising her hopes ever so slightly, for she knew that John would never do anything to hurt her. So could this really mean...? Slowly, she turned around, her eyes squeezed tight with anticipation, her heart racing against the inside of her chest like lightning, ready to explode. A little smile crawled across her face, her breath becoming shaky with every movement she made as she faced toward her bed in complete darkness, waiting to break the silence.

"Sh- Sherlock?" She asked in an almost inaudible tone, her voice small and minute, her eyes still hidden behind fluttering eyelids which produced small tears of happiness and fright. She waited for what seemed like forever, seconds like minutes and minutes like hours, the clock slowing as she stood petrified in her own shadow, shaking like an autumn leaf in the oncoming winter breezes. It was all quite silent, but still she stood unmoving, waiting for an answer. Waiting for anything to happen, and finally listening as a slight rustling emanated from the other end of the room, the sound of light tread walking toward her, feet sinking into the carpet as they moved closer. Closer. Even closer. And then, they stopped, right in front of her, filling the room with silence once more.

She kept her eyes closed, feeling a warm breath upon her forehead and recognizing the low breathing instantly, causing her to almost plummet to the ground from pure disbelief, and she felt her hands being grasped within a familiar pair, the light touch feeling like fire upon her own skin. The nimble fingers moved gently, reaching over Molly's stomach with great wonder, stopping often to feel as the baby moved slightly here and there, sending sensations across her abdomen and into the fascinated fingertips of the other party, making her chuckle slightly as small drops of water fell from her shut eyes and onto her nightgown, still in complete awe, but mostly not wanting this seeming dream to end when her eyes flashed open. But just as the tears fell from her eyes, one gentle hand shot up to her cheek, caressing it softly.

"Why are you crying?" A low voice asked in a whisper, loving concern filling the very essence of its tone. "And why are your eyes closed?" Molly could feel her heart pounding through her chest, telling her to speak, but not wanting to all the same for fear that he might disappear forever, never to be seen again. She opened her mouth slightly, then closed it once more, but consciousness overruled her senses, and she spoke softly.

"I don't want this to end," she said, her lips breaking into a light smile, but her tongue wanting to suck the words right back into her soul. This was unadulterated ecstasy, this conscious dream, making her feel happy for more than she had been in months. Nothing had ever come close to this feeling since her love had gone, and now as she stood there with her eyes closed, she wished she could stand here forever, keeping the soft hand upon her cheek.

"Molly," the voice said tenderly, catching her attention with beautiful affection, "this isn't a dream. I'm really here." The grip on her tiny hands grew slightly tighter, puller her closer toward the other person with peaceful ease, trying to reassure her that it was real, that he was really there. If she would only open her eyes... Suddenly her face grew hot and she began to doubt her own mind, wondering if she had finally gone insane, but she knew better. This was all real, and she knew it from the beginning, but somehow, her heart still needed proof that the mirage before her was really a solid figure of flesh and blood.

"Show me," the murmur escaped from her mouth, flowing out like syrupy, spiced wine poured from an evening bottle. Her breath hitched in her throat, shaking once more. "Show me that you are real." Molly leaned in, closing the gap between them, the aroma of blood orange and spice becoming stronger with every centimeter that vanished, and eyes still closed, she reached up, placing her hand on the other person's cheek, feeling the sharpness with her bare fingertips and her hand being covered with another. And then, with blissful poise, she moved in, only to feel two lips meeting her in between, completely closing the gap and pressing into hers gingerly. A pair of arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her in closer as she stood on point, reaching her arms around his neck and practically pulling herself up into his wonderful embrace, and, pulling back from the kiss only slightly, she opened her eyes, taking in the sight before her.

There he was, her Sherlock, standing before her in glowing splendor as she stood wrapped in his arms, only inches away from his face as she looked into his shining eyes. The bright blue orbs swirled in a mixture of green and gold, making her melt even further into his hold, his black curls gently swooping over his face in perfect accord with his pale skin, and she felt his hand reach up, brushing the strings of brown out of hers, making her flush slightly pink. She couldn't believe it, but she did believe it, and it was completely magnificent, and slowly, a single tear found its way through her smile, slipping down her face while she stood still, admiring the father of her child with wondrous eyes.

"You...," She croaked out, trying to gather her thoughts, but all being lost within the jumble of emotion, which now creeped up her spine and turned in the large smile splayed across her face. "You came back." Molly looked up at him, continuing to admire the man in any way possible, taking in every detail and feature of his handsome facade. She was happy, completely smitten, and there was nothing in the world at this very moment that could take it away, and slowly, she laced her hands throughout his soft hair, gently twirling a curl around her index finger as she listened to him begin to speak, his voice threatening to pull her mind into a dreamlike coma.

"Did you ever doubt that I would?" He asked her, looking slightly confused, but also happy in this moment as he looked down at Molly, her eyes steadily filling with tears of joy as he spoke to her. He reached down, wrapping his arms around her tiny waist once more, pulling her in tightly and pressing his forehead against hers, looking deeply into her brown eyes, gazing into the windows of her soul as if they contained the entire universe. This girl, this wonderfully baffling girl, was his entire world, and as he looked at her, he couldn't help but wonder how he had ever existed without having her in his life. She was magnificently perfect in every possible way, and he loved her with his entire heart, so why would she be doubtful of his return? Sherlock pressed a hand to the small of her back, pulling her in even closer, almost wanting to absorb her very existence into his own and his eyes begging her for an answer.

"I just wasn't sure if you would want to come back," she began, her eyes moving from his gaze, her head dropping in embarrassment. "You know, because of this." Molly stepped back, her hands dropping to her side as she pulled away from him, revealing the small bulge that now housed the life growing within her own self. Slowly, her hands came to rest upon the small bump, feeling as the child almost instinctively gave a small kick as its mother's fingers began to dance around its home, her loving touch warming the very core of her womb. At this, her lips began to curl into a tiny smile, gazing down at her unborn baby with longing eyes, wanting more than anything to hold them now but knowing that she would have to wait just a few more months. Still, she didn't know how Sherlock was going to react, or even if he wanted to begin a family like this, and slowly, she raised her head, seeking his gaze once more, and then, in sheer surprise, Molly felt her hands being cupped in Sherlock's once more, his grip tightening ever so gently.

"Molly," he began, his eyes filled with a bright light and his mouth in a small smile, "I came back because I wanted to and because I needed to. I love you, and this child, this wonderful child, is a product of that love that we have for one another. It's not a burden on me, it's a gift, and there is nothing that I would want more than to begin a family with you, no matter what the circumstances." Suddenly, he bent down, planting a small kiss on her stomach and sending a feeling of warmth throughout every extremity, making Molly tear up a bit. He loved her, in every way possible for a man to love a woman, and in this moment of looking down at her beautiful face, there was nothing that he wanted more than to call her his own for now and forever. They both stood in the middle of the room, gazing into each other's eyes, before finally, Sherlock leaned down, breaking the silence with a gentle kiss. Molly closed her eyes, letting his lips cover hers in a passionate greeting and returning his affections with equal pressure, but all too soon, pulling away to peer at each other once more.

"It's getting late," Sherlock said, looking over at the clock which now read three hours past midnight, and as if on cue, Molly began to feel her eyelids drooping, her body wanting nothing more than for sleep to overtake her. She hadn't felt this tired in months, her usual bouts of insomnia becoming prolonged after his plunge from the hospital roof, but right now, fatigue bit at her senses like an angry serpent, dragging her into drowsiness and pulling her closer and closer into and easeful slumber. Her body swayed, yawns escaping from her mouth as she looked up at him, her eyes falling closed and open again and again, making Sherlock chuckle as he watched her fighting the beckoning calls of the sandman, and as she fell closer into his arms, he leaned forward, scooping up her little frame as a groom does his bride. And as she began to lay her head upon his chest, he turned around, walking over to the bed.

He placed her gently upon the mattress, sliding her body delicately underneath the sheets, and, covering her with a large quilt, he retreated to the sitting room, only to be called back moments later by a sleepy voice.

"Sheeerloockk..." Molly called, her words dragged out into an adorable slur as sleepiness continuing to pull at her body, "come snuggle with me." Sherlock walked into the bedroom, watching as she moved over, clearing a space under the blankets for him to slide in beside her, her hand moving back and forth over the covers, calling him over to her side to lay beside her in slumber, and truly, he couldn't resist, for he could see nothing better than to lie beside his heart's desire and comfort her through the night. He leaned over, pulling off his shoes, and walking over to her side, he sat down on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over and slipping himself in beside his treasure, wrapping his arm around her body and pulling her in closer to him in warm acceptance. He leaned into Molly, kissing the top of her head and drinking in her pleasant fragrance, listening as she gave out a sigh of happiness.

"I love you, Sherlock," he heard her say through relaxed vocals, her voice declining to a whisper in mere moments, but her words ringing in his head clear as day. It had been almost an eternity since he had heard he speak those words, and now as he lay beside her, they sounded so sweet in his mind, filling his heart like melted chocolate and covering his heart in a cordial warmth. And lightly, he leaned over once more, kissing her forehead gently, lingering over her ear with a whisper on his lips.

"And you are my everything," and slowly, he leaned back onto the mattress, taking one last look at his sleeping beauty before closing his own eyes and giving into euphoric slumber for the first time in many months.


End file.
